The Assiniboine fired at the moment of the lightning-like shift of position, and Deerfoot heard the zip of the bullet as it sped across the space covered less than a second before by his body.
There is a lurking devil in the most saintly disposition, and that which slumbered in the breast of the young Shawanoe now flamed to a white heat. Swinging back to the upright posture he called:
"Now, Whirlwind, run him down!"
The stallion felt the pressure of the knees, understood the command, and ablaze with rage, charged like a cyclone for the other horse. In a flash he crashed into the animal, hurling him sidelong to the earth and rolling him completely over from the terrific force of the impact.
But his rider was a fine horseman and leaped to the ground before the collision. Whirling about he faced the Shawanoe, with knife drawn, for there was no time to reload his gun.
He was now at the mercy of Deerfoot, whose weapon was loaded. But for the disabled limb he would have leaped to the earth and assailed the other. He would have done the same had there been two enemies before him; he would have done the same had there been three; but he was not the fool to engage in a fight when he had but a single leg to stand upon.
The panic-stricken horse, having clambered to his feet, dashed away. Whirlwind assumed his statue-like pose and Deerfoot brought his rifle to a level, with the Assiniboine staring into the muzzle.
The fight had been of the cyclone order, but, brief as it was, Deerfoot had become himself again. He was the Christian who could not shed the blood of one that was unable to defend himself, even though that one was his deadly enemy.
The Assiniboine had dropped his gun when assuming his position at bay, and it lay several feet away on the ground. Lowering his own weapon, Deerfoot pointed after the fleeing horse and said sternly in the tongue of the Blackfeet: