He pushed and he pulled like a dog wrestling with a bone. He shook it like a rat. Then he gave it a long, vicious tug.
The bloody blade came away with a sickening sound.
And the desperado fell backward with a terrible curse. Yet, withal, his grip on the bloody hilt did not relax.
Now came the most arduous task of all, that of crawling over the body of his victim and rolling to the remaining savage, without losing the knife from his teeth. The feat was not so easy as it would seem, and he could accomplish it only by keeping his head from touching the ground over every inch of the way.
He struggled desperately.
Minutes elapsed.
But the second redskin died more speedily than had the first, Jesse having given him a terrible thrust with the deadly blade. And with eager, fascinated eyes he watched the death agonies of his victim. In a moment all movement ceased. The man was dead.
Jesse's work of vengeance, for the time, was ended. And now to roll for safety, if that were possible. Should he be caught, he knew that this time his punishment would be swift and sure. Great Bear would take no chances with him after this.
But just as the outlaw was about to start on his unequal journey, he suddenly espied the figure of an Indian standing a few paces away, in the gloom, gazing intently in his direction.
The desperado fairly held his breath. He wished now that he had brought away the bowie from his second victim. But it was too late to rectify his mistake.