Mad Anthony's scouts; or, The rangers of Kentucky

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

The lithe, agile Indian was all eagerness to secure the white as his captive and forgetful of the axiom, "a stag at bay is a dangerous foe," he halted not in the least, but came at full speed toward him. When within a rod or so, he whirled his tomahawk in a circle over his head, and hurled it with tremendous force full at the breast of his dauntless adversary. The latter, from the motion of his arm, comprehended what was coming, and dodging his head with lightning quickness, the weapon flashed over him, and went spinning end over end down the steep ravine.

Both of the combatants had dropped their rifles and drawn their knives. With a demoniac yell of triumph the painted Indian leaped high in air, and swinging his knife, sprang upon his foe. In a twinkling both were disarmed in a singular manner.

It so happened that the two struck at each other at precisely the same moment, the knives encountered with such force that the Shawanoe's shot out of his hand and followed the tomahawk down the ravine, while Hezekiah's was turned so suddenly that it fell to the ground several yards distant. Both were now entirely unarmed, and glaring at each other for a second, like baffled tigers, they closed in the struggle of life and death.

In point of strength the two were very nearly equally matched. In activity the redskin had decidedly the advantage, but the white man being an expert wrestler, and the savage a perfect novice, the former was in a fair way to end the contest in his own favor. The instant he grappled with his dusky adversary, he felt that he was at his power.

By a trick, or rather art, well known to wrestlers, Hezekiah twisted the savage off his feet, and threw him with stunning violence upon the ground, falling heavily upon him. Allowing him to rise, he repeated the performance several times, the redskin becoming more and more exhausted each moment, until it was manifest to himself that he had not the shadow of a chance in such warfare as this.

The cunning Shawanoe had noticed where the knife of his adversary fell, and each time that he went down he managed to work himself nearer to it. Hezekiah did not comprehend what he was at, until the savage clutched it with the quickness of thought, and rising again to his feet, confronted him with the weapon.

Not the least daunted, for he was now terribly excited—he closed again with the Indian, receiving an ugly cut in his arm as he did so. At this moment he heard the yells of the other two Shawanoes, and driven to fury by his imminent peril, he concentrated all his strength in the one mighty effort, and grasping his adversary around the waist, he lifted him clear off his feet, and flung him like an infant over the precipice.

Down, like a meteor, through the dizzy air, shot the Shawanoe, with his arms clutching wildly at space, spinning from crag to crag, with his awful cry coming up like the wail of some spirit!

The struggle occupied scarcely a fifth of the time taken in describing it. Impelled by the most implacable hate on each side, the blows were quick and fierce, and the termination speedy and tragic. A shock when the two encountered, a few blows and strivings, another struggle, more determined than the others, and it was ended.

Hezekiah had secured his knife before throwing the savage into the ravine, and with this single weapon he confronted his two foes. They were both about the same distance from him, and he was in doubt whether to expect their united onset at the same moment, or whether they were going to attack him singly. The latter proved to be the case. One of the Indians seemed to be a sort of chief, or, at least, higher in authority than the other; for waving his hand for him to keep his distance, he advanced upon the white man, with the determination of disposing of him without assistance from any one else.