The light of unrestrained curiosity twinkled in the Indian’s eyes.
“What is the boy to Dan?” he asked. “Why does he come back from the far-off cities of the white people to hunt him like a wolf?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Red Crest eager.”
“It is a secret—one that I would not whisper to the winds. But why need I keep it back when we are to fight to the death—until, probably, both fall dead? I will tell you, Red Crest. I will whisper in your ears the white man’s secret.”
Deadly Dan stepped forward with the last sentence on his lips.
His eagle like glance had probably detected that curiosity was mastering the young Sioux.
“Now is my time!” he muttered.
Red Crest had been thrown off his guard. He even went forward to greet the Sport’s secret; but the next moment, with, the restless bound of the jungle tiger, Deadly Dan shot forward, and a hand of death and vengeance was at the Indian’s throat!
The vehemence of Deadly Dan’s spring lifted the Indian from the ground, and the next instant he went backward, only to fall heavily nearer the darkened mouth of the little gulch with the weight of his antagonist on his chest.