“Why should he risk losing his scalp, when he is winning and he has enough men coming to burn the Apaches like dry grass?” argued the wise Old Knife.
The Apache chief sat a moment, waiting; then he turned back for his own party. From the Spanish a great shout arose, that made him again turn, quickly.
“Ai-ee! It will be a fight, man to man, after all!” Iskatappe exclaimed.
A Spanish soldier had dashed past his chief, and was galloping into the clear, flourishing his sword. It was a challenge. The chief sped to meet him. They both crouched behind their round shields. A moment—and they came together. The Spanish horseman thrust his shield forward, to throw aside the chief’s lance point. But he did not catch it full. He only threw it higher, so that it glanced on and struck him in the throat—went straight through. He fell off, backward. Jerking the lance out, the Apache chief scoured by, in a half circle, with a whoop of victory.
“Hi, yi!” Old Knife grunted. “There is blood and a scalp.”
What a yell broke from the Apaches and the Spaniards both—a yell of triumph from the one, a yell of vengeance from the others! The Spanish charged, firing their guns, to save the scalp, and to kill. The Apaches scattered; their chief galloped hither-thither, urging them to stand, but they had no stomachs for more fighting at close quarters and the rest of the Spanish were spurring in.
Presently all the Apaches, the footmen on horse again, tore away, making down the river. Without trying to pursue them the whole Spanish army gathered on the battlefield. They were too heavily clothed to overtake Indians.
“They are as many as a herd of buffalo,” said Letalesha. “They are a large war party. Where are they going and what do they want?”
“We shall find out from them at sundown,” Rich Man answered. “We will let them camp, first. They are blood hungry now, and very mad.”