“Get away, Wah-coo-tah!” panted the scout.
The girl drew back a pace, stooping to pick up another stone, and, if she got a chance to hurl it without striking the scout.
Once, twice, three times the murderous weapon rose in the air, but the scout evaded each blow by hurling himself to the right and left at the critical moment when the blade fell.
Wonderful indeed was it to note the agility of the white man, bending, twisting, side-stepping with all the grace and swiftness of a panther.
The scout sought to draw a revolver, but the Ponca watched his hands and pressed him closely whenever his fingers came close to the hand-grip of one of the Colts.
Suddenly the combatants broke apart, seemingly by tacit agreement. Quick as a dart, Big Thunder whirled sideways, and launched a sweeping blow at Wah-coo-tah.
Buffalo Bill detected the movement at his beginning. The moment’s grace afforded him would have been sufficient to allow him to draw the revolver he had been trying to get hold of, but he would not have had time to draw the revolver and shoot before the girl would have stopped the swinging knife.
Without making a try at his revolver, he reached out with both hands, caught the girl’s arm, and jerked her roughly from her feet.
Wah-coo-tah fell on the edge of the ore-dump and rolled down its steep side, while the Ponca’s knife flashed through the sunlight over the spot where she had stood a second before.
The scout leaped to the farther edge of the platform, his right hand flying to his belt.