The sinewy hands of Lightfoot rose and clutched the throat of his antagonist, his fingers almost meeting in the yielding flesh, while the bones fairly seemed to give way beneath the enormous pressure. Quivering in every fiber, the Osage relaxed his grasp, and casting his enemy from him like a child, the Kickapoo sprung upon his feet, knife and tomahawk flashing in his nervous grip.
Not a moment too soon. From every quarter came the Osage warriors. Behind them flocked the squaws and children. All were yelling in confused chorus. It seemed a scene from Pandemonium.
Uttering his thrilling war-cry, the outcast chief leaped forward, without awaiting the onset. With a motion rapid as thought, the heavy tomahawk fell; when it rose again it was stained a bright-red hue, and ruby drops fell from the once untarnished blade. Again and again it descended, now drinking the life-blood of an Osage, now parrying some deadly blow aimed at its wielder's life.
It was a thrilling sight to see that one man struggling against such fearful odds—fighting for liberty, for life! To see the blood-stained weapons flash in the weird flickering of the camp-fires; to hear the fatal blow, the half-stifled exclamation, as some keen weapon pierced the sensitive flesh; to see here a human form fall to the earth, perchance to rise no more, or else struggle to his feet and again plunge into the melée.
Fiercely, desperately Lightfoot fought, now out in the full glow of the firelight. At first his life had been aimed at, and despite his wondrous skill and celerity, more than one weapon had tasted his blood. But then the name of the outcast was echoed from lip to lip, and the cry arose to capture him for the torture-post.
Choosing rather to die at once, Lightfoot sprung upon the Osages with desperate fury, dealing his blows with lightning rapidity, leaving behind and around him a swath of dead and wounded. With superhuman strength, he slowly pressed through the cordon, and then, with one triumphant whoop, he cut down the last warrior that barred his road to freedom, and darted forward toward the friendly forest, where, once it was gained, he would be comparatively safe.
But even in the moment of triumph he was foiled. A boy flung himself in the way, clasping the Kickapoo's legs with all his members—even biting at them like a bull-dog.
Lightfoot fell heavily to the ground. Before he could arise, or regain the blood-stained weapons that were torn from his grasp by the fall, half a score Osages were upon his back.
A confused struggle—then Lightfoot was lifted up, bound hand and foot. The Osage yell of triumph rung out loud and clear.
Lightfoot smiled grimly as he glanced around. He had carved his name in broad and deep letters upon their ranks. Their victory had been a costly one.