A grim smile lit up the rugged face of the hunter.
A dozen times he could have given the “coup de grace,” but he wanted to keep up the fight as long as possible, for he wanted to give his comrades a rest.
As for himself, there was no tiring him out. His muscles were like iron, and he could outlast any two men.
Again and again the Indian sought to put his knife into the hunter’s breast, but each time he was foiled by the latter, who easily warded off the fierce blows.
Had the Indian been an experienced fighter he would never have left his breast unguarded when he lunged out so fiercely. Even the horses of the two mortal foes seemed to hate each other, for they bit and kicked at each other, and reared up in their rage. At length, Ralph resolved to end the fight.
Just then he heard a shout of warning from one of his comrades. A hasty glance over his shoulder served to show him the cause of it. Three Indians were hastening to the aid of their chief. The hunter resolved that they should come up too late. A loud, terrible hurrah pealed forth from their lips, and like a thunderbolt he came upon the chief.
The latter’s attempt to guard off the deadly blows that were rained down upon him were useless.
A heavy blow from the hunter’s knife gave him his quietus, and like a stricken hog, he gave a grunt, and fell from his horse, stone dead. The knife had cut his black heart in twain.
Another yell came from Ralph as he turned, and in a moment he was upon the three warriors, who were coming to the aid of their chief. His knife pierced the breast of one of them, and he fell from his steed with the deadly blade in his body.
The Comanches saw that the hunter was now unarmed, and they thought they could easily kill him now.