Instantly the young Cheyenne rushed forward, whirled his tomahawk around his head, and flung it straight at the skull of his enemy.
But he had reckoned without his adversary’s lightninglike quickness of eye.
Kennelly ducked just in time to escape the deadly missile, which tore off part of one of the feathers in his headdress.
Straightening himself immediately, he flung his own tomahawk at the Cheyenne, burying it deep in his skull.
The man staggered, yelling his death whoop; but before he could fall to the ground Kennelly leaped upon him, caught him in his arms as if he was a baby, and tossed him high into the air over his own head.
He fell to the ground, and when the other Indians rushed up to examine him they found that not only was his skull cleft, but that his neck had been broken by the terrible fall.
Bad Eye calmly drew his knife and took the dead man’s scalp, although he knew that that act would doubly enrage the already furious Cheyennes.
Then, holding the bloodstained knife above his head, and dangling the scalp in the other hand, he cried:
“I have overcome your champion, oh, chiefs! Who will be next to yield up his scalp to Bad Eye?”
There was no response to this challenge. The Indians were brave men, and the Cheyennes, at least, were much irritated at the death of their champion; but not one among them cared to try conclusions with such a redoubtable fighter as Kennelly had shown himself to be.