The sight of him fairly rooted the young chief. "The Squaw!" His voice was furious.
Behind, a great laugh went up. And, as though there was no longer a need either to respect or fear the signals of the one who barred their path, the whole band charged.
A little to one side of The Squaw, a gun spoke—right into their midst. A brave screamed, catching at his thigh. The others wavered and fell back beyond rifle reach, taking him with them.
The stooping figure in squaw's dress signed once more for single combat.
Lame Foot addressed his brothers. "We delay too long," he cautioned. "Standing Buffalo, go forward and slay the she-skunk, and let us hasten."
Standing Buffalo waved his bow aloft. "I do so," he promised. "But you, Medicine-Giver, must hold me clean of shame for fighting a squaw!" Then, to the outcast, "Come out, coffee-cooler, and die." He halved the distance between him and the Throat.
Squaw Charley approached him watchfully, setting a shaft in place. His face seemed all eyes—eyes burning with a fierce joy. Standing Buffalo fitted an arrow. Both raised their bows.
Behind the chief came calls of derision and execration. Behind the outcast came a voice, clear and steady: "Careful, Charley, careful."
To and fro, the contestants were stealing, noiselessly, on the alert, each striving to get the other in a favourable light.
A minute, another—then Standing Buffalo bent his knees, drew and shot. But the arrow veered a trifle from its intended course.