"Hark!" whispered Annie, as a startling sound broke the stillness of the air.
It was a loud, hoarse shout, closely followed by a shrill yell; and then the confused noise as of a mortal struggle between strong men. John quickly divined the cause.
"It is your friends, returned to look for you. They have met the Indian who was with the one I killed. Do you stay here, while I go forward and help them."
"No, I will go along," and then the young couple glided rapidly toward the spot from whence proceeded the confused sounds.
It was indeed as John had surmised. Tobe Castor had come into collision with Asamee, and, well matched in point of strength and dexterity, they were now rolling over the ground in a life and death grapple.
Tobe had made one blow, his knife sinking deep into the shoulder of the savage, inflicting a painful flesh wound, but in nowise disabling him. As he received the wound, Asamee gave a quick twist, that wrenched the knife from Castor's hand, tearing it from the wound, and hurling it several yards away.
However, he found his own hands full without attempting to draw a weapon, and it bade fair to result in a test of relative strength and endurance; their arms wound about each other, as they strove desperately for the mastery. But such was not to be the case.
Stevens dashed up, and paused before the contestants, with ready knife. He could not distinguish one from the other; and then, resolving to chance it, he spoke out.
"Who is it—white or red?"
"Both, I reckon—I kin answer fer the white, anyhow," muttered Castor, the words issuing by jerks. "Who're you?"