But not in Jack’s skull—the Indian scout was too electric in his thoughts and movements to stand calmly and feel the metal crash into his brain. Bending low, with the quickness of a serpent, he darted under the savage’s arm just in time, but he stopped not to congratulate himself upon his escape, but turning clasped the chief round the waist and suddenly “tripped him up.”
The savage’s thigh passed before his face as the chief was hurled backward. A stream of deep-red blood was spirting from a wide gash in it—the momentum of the hatchet had been so great Red-Knife had been unable to check it, and it had entered his thigh and severed the main artery. The blood was spirting in a large, red stream in the air, and he felt the warm liquid plash and fall on his back. But he whirled the faint chief over on his back, and with a sudden, keen blow, drove the knife into his heart. With a last dying look of malevolency the chief scowled on his victorious enemy, then the death-rattle sounded in his throat—he was dead, no longer a renegade.
Jack sprung up and stood on his guard, but there was no necessity. Short as the combat had been (only three minutes in duration) it was now over, being finished as the guide drew his knife from a convulsively twitching savage, and wiped it on his sleeve.
Save the eight prostrate savages, not an Indian was in sight. Cool, steady, reticent Tim Simpson sheathed his knife and picked up his gun and revolver.
“Durned spry work!”
He was not answered. To the majority of the band the thought was overwhelming—that, where fifteen minutes since, thirty cunning Apaches were surrounding them, not one remained alive. For several minutes no one spoke, but all gazed around on the battle scene.
The draw above was empty—the sinking savages, foiled in their bloody purpose, had sunk to their death. Carpenter moodily gazed where they were last visible, and murmured:
“God bless the quicksand.”
“Ay, ay!” came from the others’ lips.
Cimarron Jack sprung up at the “reach,” and looked around.