An Indian Duel
The Indian on the pinto pony is armed with a big buffalo-lance, while his opponent wields a skin-knife. As depicted by the artist the buffalo-lance is being driven clean through his antagonist’s shoulder.
The officer shot twice at long range but missed, and, as the panting red man ran straight toward him the sheriff fell to the earth and crawled away, leaving Howling Wolf to face a squad of twenty infuriated cowboys and a thousand citizens just behind on foot. With the light of hell on their faces they shot down the defenseless man and then alighted, and, with remorseless hate, crushed his face beneath their feet as if he were a rattlesnake. They stabbed his dead body and shot it full of bullets. They fought for a chance to kick him. They lost all resemblance to men. Wolves fighting over the flesh of their own kind could not have been more heartlessly malevolent—more appalling in their ferocity.
In the clamor of their breathless cursing and cries of hate a strong clear voice made itself heard—a vibrant manly voice:
“Stop, in the name o’ Christ!” And through the wolfish mass a tall young man in the garb of a Catholic priest forced his way. His big, broad face was set with resolution and his brow gleamed white in the midst of the tumbling mass of bronzed weather-beaten border men.
“Stand back! Are you fiends of hell? Where is your shame? A thousand to one! Is this your American chivalry? Oh, you cowards!”
He stood above the fallen man like a lion over the body of his mate. His voice quivered with the sense of his horror and indignation.
“God’s curse on ye if you touch this man again.” The crowd was silent now and the priest went on: “I have seen the beasts of the African jungles at war and I know the habits of the serpents of Nicaragua—I know your American bears and wolves, but I have never seen any savagery like this.”
Every word he spoke could be heard by the mob; every man who listened looked aside. They were helpless under the lash of the young priest’s scorn. “You are the brave boys of whom we read,” he said, turning to the cowboys. “You are the Knights of the plains——” Then his righteous wrath flamed forth again. “Knights of the plains! The graveyard jackals turn sweet in your presence. Brave men are ye to rope and drag a defenseless man—and you!” He turned to the slinking sheriff. “You are of my parish—I know you. The malediction of the church hangs over you for this day’s work.” He paused for breath; then added: “Take up the body of this man. He is dead but his blood will yet make this town a stench in the nostrils of the world. You cannot do these things to-day and not be condemned of all Christian peoples.”
With a contemptuous wave of his hand he dismissed the mob. “Go home! Go back to your wives and children and boast of your great deed. Leave the dead with me.”