I dropped my eyelids to let him feel more secure, but only watched him closer through the lashes. “Strike, dog!” he cried.
“Be silent, and act, you red thief!” I replied.
That was a great insult, which must be followed either by an angry answer or the attack, and the latter thereupon ensued.
An angry dilation of his pupil warned me, and the next moment his right arm struck quickly and forcibly upward to rip my body like an old coat. Had I been looking for a blow downward it would have been all over with me, but I parried his thrust with my knife, and cut him deeply in the forearm.
“Dog! swine!” he shrieked, dropping his knife in rage and pain.
“Don’t talk; fight,” I said, raising my arm, and then my knife was in his heart up to the hilt. I instantly drew it out. The stroke was so true that a little stream of red blood spurted out on me. My foe swung backward and forward, groaned, and fell to the earth dead.
A wrathful howl burst from the Indians, but only the chief moved; he came out from the others and knelt by my adversary, examined the wound, rose, and gave me a look which I shall not soon forget. It was eloquent of fear, hatred, amazement, and admiration. He would have gone away without a word, but I said: “Do you see that I am still in my place, while Metan-Akva has left his? Who has conquered?”
“You have,” he answered angrily, and went away; but after taking five or six steps he turned back, and snarled at me: “You are a white son of the wicked spirit. Our medicine-men will find out your charm, and then you shall give up your life to us.”
“Do what you like with your medicine-men, but keep your word with us.”
“What word?” he asked haughtily.