But if the Ponca was quick, the scout was a shade quicker. Twisting about in his saddle, Buffalo Bill clutched the Ponca’s knife-wrist with his right hand, and, with his left, took a firm grip of the Ponca’s throat.
A second later and the struggle carried them both to the ground.
Big Thunder was a powerful Indian, and the nude, upper-half of his wiry body was liberally besmeared with bear’s grease. The grease made him as slippery as an eel. Nevertheless, the scout knew how to deal with him.
A crushing pressure at the wrist caused the knife to drop. With the Ponca practically disarmed, the fight became one of mere wrestling and fisticuffs.
Big Thunder slipped his oily throat clear of the scout’s fingers, but the scout’s hand, leaping upward from the throat, took a firm grip of the scalp-lock. Holding the Ponca’s head to the ground, Buffalo Bill released his wrist, and got his right hand about the throat in such a manner that it could not slip; then, kneeling on the ground, he held the Ponca in that position until he was half-throttled.
“Waugh!” jubilated Nomad. “Jest see how Pard Buffler tames ther red savage. I’m darned ef et ain’t as good as a show. Goin’ ter strangle him, Buffler? Better do et. Ef ye don’t, he’ll camp on yore trail an’, sooner er later, ye’ll hev ter kill him ter prevent his takin’ yer scalp.”
The scout saw that the Indian had been punished enough for his attack, and suddenly sprang away from him.
“Don’t worry, pard,” sang out Nomad; “I’ve got him kivered.”
For a second or two the Ponca lay on the ground, gasping for breath; then, as he struggled to his feet, the point of the trapper’s revolver lifted with him, the trapper’s menacing eye gleaming along the barrel.
“Easy, thar, Ponk!” warned Nomad; “make er single hosstyle move, an’ ye’ll be er good Injun afore ye kin say Jack Robinson.”