It even made Cody shrink when he contemplated it. His only way of reaching the island was by swimming, and against that current, and with the chill evening coming on, the scout might well hesitate. But not for long. What must be done would better be done quickly, and the Border King was well inured to exposure and cold. He threw aside his ammunition-belt and his weapons. His coat, waistcoat, and outer shirt went likewise. Off came his riding-boots, and then in his undergarment, and with his bowie between his teeth, he plunged into the flood and essayed the venture.
Whether he was being watched from the island by his enemy, Cody did not know. But this was the only way he saw to get at Boyd Bennett and the girl. He was matching his life against the bandit’s now, in the last desperate act of the series which had followed the abduction of White Antelope early the day before.
CHAPTER XLV.
WAR TO THE KNIFE.
And, indeed, Boyd Bennett was almost at his last gasp when he dragged himself ashore and put the nearest clump of brush between him and the water, thus hiding his future movements from the sharp eyes of the Border King. There the man fell upon the meager sward that clothed this part of the island, and lay, gasping like a great fish just out of its element, almost helpless with exhaustion. The White Antelope, had she recovered consciousness and power of action during those first few minutes, might easily have escaped from her captor. But she had come nearer being drowned than was at all pleasant. She lay so still and white where Bennett had flung her upon the ground, that even he, hardened villain that he was, feared his usage of her delicate body had been too much for the spirit that inhabited it, and that the breath was already sped from the girl.
But not for some minutes did Bennett think thus. He could barely recover his own breath at first. He was chilled through and through by the icy water. His clothing clung to him like lead. He had lost most of his weapons during his struggle in the river; but his bowie and a pistol remained—the latter, of course, useless in its present condition. His ammunition was saturated, too. He had but his knife to depend on, was he attacked.
And at that thought the bandit chief started to life! Attacked, indeed! There was a relentless enemy on his trail. He, too, knew that it had come to the final trial of strength between he and the Border King. His death, or William F. Cody’s, must mark this island as a tragic spot forever.
The great scout, he knew, would never give up while life remained in his body. As for Bennett himself, he was pushed now to the last extremity. He was bereft of all his associates. He had seen them killed one by one, by fate, or by the relentless arm of Buffalo Bill. He had lost caste with the Sioux, over whom he had obtained so great an influence during the past few months. And all for what? For this White Antelope—a half-breed girl—a woman who hated him, and who considered herself, though of mixed blood, too good for him.
He gnashed his teeth in rage as he thought of this, and his rage somewhat aroused him. He crawled to the girl and shook her. Her body was limp—and oh, so cold! It well-nigh frightened Bennett to touch her. Could it be that she was already dead?
He tore open the doeskin blouse that draped the upper part of her person and bared her bosom. His hand sought her heart and felt a timid flutter there. She was still alive!