“That must be the Prairie Wolf, Ben.”
“Wouldn’t doubt it, Tom. He really has the face to go with his name.”
The young savage was a big, raw-boned, ugly-looking Indian, with a sinister, bloated face. He had a striped kerchief of silk wrapped around his long black hair. Otherwise, he was naked to the waist. A pair of soiled skin leggings completed his dress.
“It’ll be murder!” groaned Tom. “Prairie Wolf looks strong as a bull.”
“He’ll be a wicked opponent,” agreed Ben, with a solemn shake of the head.
Crude flags had been stuck in the sand roundabout, marking out an arena; and gruff Indian guards now cleared this ring. Heading these guards, and likewise acting as seconds, were the great chiefs, Chepoi and Blue Jacket. A little outside the ring, all alone, was the dusky Indian princess. She stood erect and motionless, with arms akimbo, seemingly indifferent to the fierce combat soon to ensue.
Preparations were now complete, and the two duelists headed their horses to opposite ends of the arena. Each youth had a long, sharp-pointed spear under his right arm, while on his left he carried a shield which appeared to be made of some sort of hide or skin.
“Those shields don’t look like much protection,” observed Tom dubiously. “Whew! see the keen points on those spears!”
“You’re wrong, boy,” asserted a grizzled trader, who stood at his side. “Them shields is so tough that lots o’ times they’ll turn back a musket ball. They’re made o’ buffalo sinews j’ined together.”
It was a nervous sight to behold the two resolute Indian youths, sitting erect in their saddles with muscles tensed, while their fractious little ponies neighed and pawed the ground in impatience.