And, while they thus made half-hearted blows, fearful lest they strike their good ally, Blue Jacket suddenly sprang aside, leaving the animal struggling on the ground. In vain it attempted to follow its human adversary. The ready knife of the stalwart young Shawanee had struck in too deeply, and already was the panther feeling the throes of approaching death.
Even as the boys gazed, spellbound, the animal stiffened out, after one last violent movement. Blue Jacket was breathing very hard; but upon his set face they could see the look that comes to a victor in a well-fought battle.
"Are you hurt much, Blue Jacket?" asked Sandy, fearful lest those terrible claws might have torn the young Shawanee.
The other glanced down at a few places where the blood had commenced to show, as marking the scratches he had received; then he shook his head scornfully.
"Not much hurt," he announced. "Panther hard kill—fight back—take many times finish," and he opened the fingers of both hands to illustrate how many strokes he had made with that knife before he felt that he had accomplished his purpose.
"But why didn't you let me shoot him?" demanded Sandy, as though feeling hurt, because at that short distance he knew one shot would have surely finished the "woods terror," as such beasts were known at the time.
"Make noise—tell Iroquois we here—no good, see, Sandy?" was the way Blue Jacket put it; and Sandy immediately realized how great a sacrifice the other had just made in order to keep their presence on the trail unknown to those they hunted.
He looked at his brother, and drew a long breath.
"Where could we have found a better friend, Bob?" he said, earnestly.
"We must have looked a long way, Sandy," returned the other. "But let me put a little salve my mother made on those cuts, Blue Jacket. There is poison in the claws of a tiger cat, and you may have a bad time, unless we look out for it."