Like a snake uncoiling in stroke, the Abnaki leaped.
Crawford twisted on his side in the snow, by a miracle of dexterity evading the knife-blow, but he could not evade the crushing weight of the redskin, which pinned him down. He drove up blindly and desperately with his own knife. The blade slid home in flesh, then the haft was jerked from his hand as the Abnaki writhed up, only slightly hurt.
For an instant Crawford, helpless to move, knew himself lost. The chief was kneeling upon him, knife flashing up for the finishing stroke; with a grunt, the redskin brought it down for Crawford’s breast. The blow went true—but the point swerved, turned sharply aside, glanced from Crawford’s ribs into the ground.
The Star of Dreams had intervened.
“My manitou is strong,” panted Crawford, and threw out his strength.
Astonished and dismayed by the happening, disconcerted by those words, the Abnaki was caught in relaxation. He swung sidewise, then Crawford had him by knife-arm and throat and dragged him down in deadly embrace.
Through the snow they plunged, bodies interlocked in a desperate grip, rolling over and over, while to one side watched the eager-faced Bienville, lowered pistol forgotten. Crawford knew himself the better man at this game, feeling the throat-tendons of the redskin yield to his iron fingers; but at the same time he felt the chief’s left hand leave his arm and go down for the tomahawk at girdle. Then, the heat of the fire close at hand, he hurled himself sidelong, dragged the Indian over him, thrust that hideously painted head and torso into the flames and embers of the blaze.
War-chief or not, a low cry of mortal anguish escaped the Abnaki, and his arms flew out. Crawford, rising to his knees, drove a fist into the painted visage, then struck once more, this time more carefully. The Abnaki relaxed, senseless, and Crawford dragged his inert body back from the fire.
“A stout rascal, egad!” he exclaimed, panting for breath. “I should put the steel into him—but, unhappily, I have convictions against murder, and I cannot conceive of any immediate use to which I might put his scalp lock. You may have his life, Bienville; I imagine that it is of some value to you and your brother. By the way, the priming has fallen out of that pistol. Better look to it.”
Bienville, wide-eyed at the scene, glanced at his pistol, laughed, and thrust it into his girdle. He stared at Crawford in mingled admiration and perplexity.