“I think I’ll meet him,” said the scout, setting down his rifle and looking to his revolvers and knife. He led Bear Paw to the place where they had entered, clambered out on top, and mounted.
“Ef they ’tempt any funny bus’ness we’re goin’ ter make um think et’s rainin’ red-hot bullets,” shouted Nomad.
The chief who came forward was well mounted, and advanced with a genial:
“How?”
“How?” answered the scout, riding up to the Indian and extending his hand.
Like a flash the Indian’s knife came out, and he struck at the heart of the scout.
But as other treacherous Indians had done before him, this one had miscalculated. He built too much upon his own prowess, and underestimated that of his antagonist.
Bear Paw was away like a flash, and then back again with a lunge that knocked the Indian pony almost off its feet. At the same instant the scout struck the chief’s arm a blow that sent his knife flying through the air, and, lifting the savage bodily from the saddle, hurled him backward to the sun-hardened mesa, stunned.
But at sight of this the entire party charged upon the daring white man, and the battle was on.
The scout put spurs to Bear Paw and dashed back toward the cleft where his companions were hidden, at the same time, turning in the saddle, he poured several shots from his revolvers into the scattering, yelling, shooting savages.