The two men had clinched for the death-grapple, and in their furious struggles they dashed one another against the sides and roof of the narrow cave. Dear life hung in the balance, and both knew it well. Stephens's left hand had no grip left in it, but he could use the arm to bear down his opponent, while his strong right hand held on like a vice to the wrist it had seized, and kept the deadly blade from being plunged into him. Mute as wolves they battled for the mastery; the sweat poured off them like rain, and their breath came in short, hard pants. Then with joy Stephens felt that his right hand was overpowering his enemy's and with all his might he dashed the Indian's hand and the knife it held so violently against the rough rock wall that the blade snapped short off at the haft. One despairing effort the active red man made to twist himself clear, but in the narrow space his litheness was of no avail, and by sheer strength Stephens got him under and turned him on his face. A short moment they paused, exhausted and breathless, when suddenly the American released the other's wrist and clutched him by the throat. Writhe as he might the Indian could not throw him off, nor relax that fatal grip that was choking the very life out of him. Gradually he ceased to struggle, and Stephens knew now that victory was his; with a final effort he raised himself on one knee on the red man's back, and quickly shifting the grip of his right hand from the throat to the top of the head, with a sharp, hard jerk and backward wrench he broke his neck. A convulsive quiver ran through his enemy's limbs, and then died away. The last of the renegade gang was dead.
Bruised, battered, and bleeding, the victor dragged himself from out the cave that had so nearly been his tomb. The fight was finished, he had no enemies left, and he lay there weak and unstrung, his head resting on his blood-stained hands. "Why can't men be brothers?" he said. "But they would have it. They began. I didn't want to kill them. I wonder is Rocky dead? They're all good Indians now, anyway."
A dead Indian is reckoned a good Indian throughout the West. He can be trusted not to do any mischief.
His strength returning, he drew out the body of Faro from the cave, and felt him all over; he had been dashed senseless against the wall of the cave and three of his ribs were injured, but his heart still beat; he was not completely done for.
"Worth a whole herd of dead dogs yet," said his master, gently rubbing the brindled back which at first he had feared was broken. "A blacktail buck has used you up as bad before now." He fondled his head, and the dog, coming to, made a feeble attempt to lick his hand. "We'll find a way to tote you home, never fear, old man," he continued; "and it's odd if we can't scare up a nurse to fix you good when we get back."
He examined his own body; he was scraped and skinned by the rough rocks, and his shirt was torn half off him in the last struggle with the Indian; but except for the one severe knife-gash, which he carefully bound up, he had no serious wound.
He looked for his mare. She was grazing peacefully where he had left her, with her bridle trailing, as a hunter's horse should do. He looked away beyond her, far across the burning plain.
"I've played this hand alone," said he; "but I'm thinking it's getting about time for those San Remo folks to chip in."