An immense redskin, a giant in size and strength, and armed with a heavy war-club, a terrible weapon in the hands of a powerful man, leaned swiftly upon Hale.
The detective turned savagely upon his gigantic foe, and swung his heavy bowie-knife full at the Indian’s broad bosom, and with such good aim that it went in like a bolt.
But the Indian was not checked by the blow.
Onward, with upraised club, he came.
Hale dodged swiftly, but the blow was made too quickly for him, and he got a terrible clip on the top of the head that stretched him out.
As he fell to the ground his big enemy also dropped.
The red giant fell forward, and as he reached the ground the hilt of the knife was fairly forced through his body.
With a deep groan and a gasping cry he expired.
The bright chemical blaze streaming up from the wagon of the Steam Man shed its brilliant glow far around, and the grove and its surroundings were well lit up.
A villainous-looking half-breed, a tall, well-built fellow, crawled up to the wagon while the fight was going on, and after a moment’s search succeeded in finding Pomp’s banjo.