Eager to assist his old comrade, he presses onward; but, before he can come up, they have closed, and are at it.
Not in combat, paces apart, with rifles or pistols. Not a shot is being exchanged between them. Instead, they are close together, have clutched one another, and are fighting, hand to hand, with bowies!
It commenced on horseback, but at the first grip both came to the ground, dragging each other down. Now the fight continues on foot, each with his bared blade hacking and hewing at the other.
A dread spectacle these two gigantic gladiators engaged in mortal strife! All the more in its silence. Neither utters shout, or speaks word. They are too intent upon killing. The only sound heard is their hoarse breathing as they pant to recover it—each holding the other’s arm to hinder the fatal stroke.
Clancy’s heart beats apprehensively for the issue; and with rifle cocked, he rides on to send a bullet through Borlasse.
It is not needed. No gun is to give the coup de grâce to the chief of the prairie pirates. For, the blade of a bowie-knife has passed between his ribs, laying him lifeless along the earth.
“You, Charley Clancy!” says Sime, in joyful surprise at seeing his friend still safe. “Thank the Lord for it! But who’d a thought o’ meeting ye in the middle of the skrimmage! And in time to stan’ by me hed that been needful. But whar hev ye come from? Dropt out o’ the clouds? An’ what o’ Dick Darke? I’d most forgot that leetle matter. Have ye seed him?”
“I have.”
“Wal; what’s happened? Hev ye did anythin’ to him?”
“The same as you have done to him,” answers Clancy, pointing to the body of Borlasse.