Kennelly held his tomahawk, red with the blood of the slain Cheyenne, in his hand.
Buffalo Bill did not possess such a weapon, but a Cheyenne brave stepped out of the circle of onlookers and handed one to him.
It was a weird and impressive scene.
The firelight cast a fitful glow on the faces of the duelists, and illumined their eyes as they circled around for a few moments, waiting the opportunity to send their sharp-edged weapons whizzing to the mark.
Suddenly Kennelly stepped forward with a rapid motion and flung his tomahawk at the border king’s head.
Buffalo Bill had held his eyes, just as the pugilist does those of his opponent, and instinctively he knew what was coming a second before Kennelly raised his hand.
He flung himself forward, and the tomahawk passed harmlessly a foot above his head.
“Wah!” cried the Indians, in admiration of the border king’s clever movement.
Before the exclamation had died upon their lips, Buffalo Bill had darted forward and struck Kennelly a terrible blow on the crown, which cleft his head asunder almost to the chin.
Bad Eye would trouble the peace of the border no more. The renegade had met with his deserts at last.