The chief had no thought of flight. He knew that his braves largely outnumbered the white men, and he was only too glad to accept the gage of battle.
He had heard, too, from his scouts who had reported to him the approach of the white force before he left the village, that the famous “Long Hair” was in command of the white scouts. That alone would have been sufficient inducement to him to fight if there had been no other.
The conflict opened at long range, and the two parties fired at one another for two or three hours, taking such cover as they could behind their horses in the long grass, or behind small hummocks in the otherwise flat expanse of the prairie.
But the Indians found that this way of skirmishing did not pay them. The scouts were far better shots than they were, and possessed better rifles. So at last Black Panther gave the word to force the fighting to close quarters.
Buffalo Bill, like the good general that he was, tried to avoid this; but he could not do so. The horses of his men were jaded, while those of the Indians were fresh from their long rest.
Soon the two contending forces had closed, and the fighting was furious and animated beyond all description.
Buffalo Bill and Black Panther sought one another out in the middle of the scrimmage, and fought desperately hand to hand.
Then Buffalo Bill found out what a terrible enemy the Sioux chief was. The king of the scouts was wont to say in after years that he was the worst foe he had ever encountered.
Black Panther fired at him and missed. Then, angrily flinging down his gun, he drew his tomahawk and struck at him.
The king of the scouts had fired the last shot in the magazine of his repeater. He raised the weapon, and the blade of Black Panther’s hatchet fell on the stock, shearing the tough wood clean through—so terrible was the force of the blow.