Valentine and his two comrades, Belhumeur and Black Elk (for the Frenchman was not mistaken, it was really the hunter coming up, whom the Canadian had warned) fell on the peons simultaneously with Don Martial and his companion.
A terrible, silent, and obstinate struggle went on for some minutes between these nine men; the foes had seized each other round the body, as they were too close to use firearms, and tried to stab each other. Nothing was heard but angry curses and panting, but not a word or cry, for what is the use of insulting when you can kill?
The Zaragate, so soon as he recognized the hunter, dashed at him. Valentine, although taken off his guard, offered a vigorous resistance; the two men were entwined like serpents, and, in their efforts to dismount each other, at last both fell, and rolled beneath the feet of the combatants who, without thinking of them, or perceiving their fall, continued to attack each other furiously.
The hunter was endowed with great muscular strength and unequalled science and agility; but on this occasion he had found an adversary worthy of him. The Zaragate, some years younger than Valentine, and possessed of his full bodily strength, while urged on by the love of a rich reward, made superhuman efforts to master his opponent and plunge his navaja into his throat. Several times had each of them succeeded in getting the other underneath, but, as so frequently happens in wrestling, a sudden movement of the shoulders or loins had changed the position of the adversaries and brought the one beneath who a moment previously had been on the top.
Still Valentine felt that his strength was becoming exhausted; the unexpected resistance he met with from an enemy apparently so little worthy of him, exasperated him and made him lose his coolness. Collecting all his remaining vigour to attempt a final and decisive effort, he succeeded in getting his enemy once again under him, and pinned him down; but at the same moment Valentine uttered a cry of pain and rolled on the ground—a horse's kick had broken his left arm.
The Zaragate sprang up with a tiger's bound, and bursting into a yell of delight, placed his knee on his enemy's chest, at the same time as he prepared to bury his navaja in his heart. Valentine felt that he was lost, and did not attempt to avoid the death that threatened him.
"Poor Louis," he merely said, looking firmly and intrepidly at the bandit.
"Ah, ah!" the Zaragate said, with a ferocious grin, "I hold my vengeance at length, accursed Trail-hunter."
He did not complete the sentence; suddenly seized by his long hair, while a knee, thrust between his shoulders, forced him to bend back, he saw, as in a horrible dream, a ferocious face grinning above his head. With a fearful groan he rolled on the ground; a knife had been buried in his heart, while his scalp, which was suddenly removed, left his denuded skull to inundate with blood the ground around.
Curumilla raised in his arms the body of his friend, whose life he had just saved once again, and bore it to the side of the road. Valentine had fainted.