The Apache was powerful, supple, and as slippery as an eel. He had his adversary about the waist, and, in spite of the terrible pressure about his windpipe, his grasp tightened until the king of scouts thought that his ribs would collapse.
But the end came in a manner that neither combatant had anticipated. In moving about, the Apache’s foot struck a stone, and in tumbling his hold on Buffalo Bill was relaxed. In an instant he was lying on the ground, and the scout was sitting on his chest.
The fall had partly stunned the Indian, and he was soon placed so that further resistance was impossible.
When ready for a renewal of hostilities, he discovered to his rage and disgust that his hands were tied.
“If you raise your voice to call your fellows,” whispered the king of scouts, in the Apache tongue, “I’ll kill you. Understand?”
“Heap understand,” was the hoarse reply.
“Where are your comrades?” asked the victor, with a menacing expression.
“No know.”
“Where were they when you set out to scout the summit?”
“In the cañon of the Hualapis.”