At sight of Rocky bleeding at his feet, something seemed suddenly to snap in Stephens's brain, and the secret rage that had been consuming him for days blazed out. This was open war at last, and the Navajos themselves had begun it. It was their own choice.
"So now then," said he, "they shall have it."
Almost before Mahletonkwa could draw his dripping blade from his victim's body, the American's strong grasp seized him and swung him violently round. Stephens's right hand gripped the hilt of his great hunting-knife, and with it he dealt the red man one terrible stroke as with a sword. All the strength of his arm and all the wrath of his soul went into that mighty sweep of the blade, and he felt the keen edge shear right through bone and muscle as it clove the doomed man's breast asunder and split his heart in twain. The dying yell of the Indian rent the air with so piercing a sound that the women in the Sanchez house, three furlongs off, heard it, and sprang trembling to their feet. With both his hands the American raised his stricken foe aloft and flung him clear away, a corpse before he touched ground.
It was all over in five seconds; but Stephens knew it could not end there. This was no final blow in a single combat, it was rather the first in one where the odds were still ten to one against him. Mahletonkwa's followers were swiftly unslinging their guns, save four who had sprung to their horses, whether to fight or fly he could not tell. Like a flash the American's ready six-shooter was out from his belt. Notalinkwa was nearest him, his gun already at his shoulder; but the too careful Indian paused a moment on his aim to make sure, and that pause was fatal. As the American's pistol came up level the hammer fell, and Notalinkwa, shot through the heart, pitched heavily forward, and lay there prone on the brown earth, biting it convulsively in the strong death-agony.
With the rapidity of lightning the deadly weapon spoke again, and again, and again, and as each jet of smoke and flame leapt from the muzzle, each bullet, true to its mark, laid an enemy low. If Stephens thought at all during those breathless seconds in which he sent foe after foe to his last account, it was but to say to himself, "Quick, now, quick! Be quick, but sure!"
Navajo rifle-balls whistled by him, but he felt no fear; there was no room for that, for his whole soul now was bent upon one passionate purpose,—to kill, kill, kill.
As the fourth Navajo dropped to his fourth shot, he saw the rest run, and gave one wild shout of triumph, and even as his voice rang out his fifth barrel went off, and down dropped yet another of the gang. It seemed as though he could not miss a single shot to-day.
"Oh, Doctor," he cried, "oh, Doctor! quick here, Rocky's hurt!" but he did not turn his head as he shouted to him to help his wounded friend.
The four Indians who had already mounted were off and away, and Kaniache, the last of those who had turned to fight when Mahletonkwa was slain, had now lost heart and was springing to horse to follow them. What chance was there to fight against a man like this, on whom no Navajo rifle-balls seemed to have any effect, but whose own unerring bullets slew a victim at each shot? He was no mere man, but an avenging fury.
Alas for Kaniache! the resolve to fly came too late. As he reached the saddle Stephens raised his six-shooter for the last time, and the foresight came into the V-notch of the hammer just below the red man's shoulder blade as he turned to flee. The last of the six cartridges spoke, once more the jet of flame and smoke leaped from the muzzle, and Kaniache dropped forward on the neck of his steed, clutching blindly and desperately at the mane. The horse bounded forward after the others that had fled before him, his rider's hot blood pouring down his withers, and dropping on to his knees at every stride. Then the desperate clutch relaxed, and the death-stricken Kaniache pitched heavily to the ground, and with loose rein the riderless steed galloped wildly across the plain.