The instant Brinton Kingsland looked around and saw the Indian on his pony, a short distance away, with his rifle at his shoulder and about to fire a second time, he brought his own Winchester to a level and aimed at the one who had attempted thus treacherously to shoot him in the back.
The Indian was no older than himself, sitting firmly on the bare back of his horse, with his blanket wrapped about his shoulders, and several stained eagle feathers protruding from his hair, as black and coarse as that of his pony's tail. His dark eyes glittered as they glanced along the barrel of his rifle, and he aimed straight at the breast of the youth, who instead of flinging himself over the side of his horse in the attempt to dodge the deadly missile, sat bolt upright and aimed in turn at the miscreant, who, as if stirred by the same scorn of personal danger, remained firmly in his seat.
It all depended on who should fire first, and that which we have related took place, as may be said, in the twinkling of an eye.
But with the weapons poised, the eyes of the two glancing along the barrels and the fingers on the triggers, neither gun was discharged. Brinton was on the point of firing, when the Indian abruptly lowered his Winchester, with the exclamation—
"Hoof! Brinton!"
The white youth had recognised the other at the same instant when another moment would have been too late. He, too, dropped the stock of his gun from his shoulder and called out with a surprised expression—
"Wolf Ear!"
The Indian touched his pony with his heel, and the animal moved forward briskly, until the riders faced each other within arm's length.
"How do you do?" asked the Ogalalla, extending his hand, which Brinton took with a smile, and the reproving remark—
"I did not expect such a welcome from you, Wolf Ear."