“Yer haven’t been able to do it with both hands during all these years that you’ve been tryin’, when yer’ve had yer whole tribe to help yer; but don’t make a fool of yerself, Lone Wolf. Are your right arm hurt?”
“Lone Wolf will fight the white dog with his strong arm.”
“No, yer don’t—that’s played out,” growled the scout, shoving his knife back in his girdle. “I don’t love yer ’any more than I love the devil, and I felt happy to think that I had got a chance at last to git square with yer; but when I lift the top-knot of Lone Wolf and slide him under, he’s got to have the same chance that I have. I don’t believe you’d act that way toward me; but, then, you’re a redskin, and that makes the difference. Lone Wolf, we’ll adjourn the fight till you’re yerself agin.”
And, deliberately turning away, the scout vaulted upon the back of the mustang, cutting the lariat that held him by a sweep of the knife.
“I s’pose you’ll own I’ve got some claim on this beast; so good-by.”
“I S’POSE YOU’LL OWN I’VE GOT SOME CLAIM ON THIS BEAST.”
And, without turning to look at him again, he rode deliberately away.
The Apache stood like a statute staring at him until he was hidden from view by the intervening trees. Then he turned and walked slowly in the opposite direction, no doubt with strange thoughts in his brain.
“I don’t know how that scamp will take it,” muttered Sut, as he rode along. “He’s one of the ugliest dogs that ever wore a painted face; and if he could catch me with a broken arm or head, he wouldn’t want anything better than to chop me up into mincemeat; but, as I told the old varmint himself, he’s an Injin and I ain’t, and that’s what’s the matter.”