As the Navaho’s own strength was being exerted in the same direction, he could not save himself in time. He struggled for a second or two to keep his balance, but in vain.
Before the spectators could fully realize the cleverness of Wharton’s trick, Leaping Dog was lying face downward on the ground, as flat as the proverbial pancake.
He was badly shaken up, for the fall was a heavy one. For several moments he lay prostrate, and then Nick Wharton helped him to his feet and offered to shake hands with him.
The surly Indian brushed aside the proffered hand and shouted savagely:
“I will fight you with knife or with tomahawk!”
“That you shall not!” declared Red Cloud angrily, stepping in between them. “Begone to your tepee, Leaping Dog! You blacken the face of our tribe. Learn respect for our white brothers, who have fought so well for us.”
The other braves around the fire shouted angrily that Leaping Dog ought to be expelled from the tribe.
Seeing how strong was the feeling against him, Leaping Dog retired to his lodge, as commanded, but he did not lie down to sleep.
Had any one drawn aside the flap of buffalo hide that served for a door, the buck would have been seen busy at a task congenial to his savage nature.
He was whetting a long, broad-bladed knife by the light of a lamp of crude oil, and singing a savage death song as he did so.