The next moment the mute found his throat griped by long fingers, and the Pawnee was bearing him to the ground with quick ejaculations of success.
“The horse has betrayed the white hunter,” hissed the Indian. “He never leaves the Pawnee village, never!”
The keen edged scalping-knife quivered over the tufted head before its owner could recover his equilibrium, for the Loup’s action was the work of a single moment.
All at once the Pawnee felt his antagonist’s muscles swell to the bulk of mill-ropes, and the next minute Sleeping Bear sprung to his feet like the upward flash of the rocket, as sudden and as resistless.
The Pawnee tried to shriek; but the cry died in his throat and the Crow’s hand choked him into the realms of insensibility. Once the red hand opened partially, but suddenly closed again, held the Pawnee at arm’s length, then let him drop.
One dead Indian lay at the edge of the corral!
During the conflict the Crow, as he styled himself, did not utter a word, and after the victory he maintained the dogged silence which had kept his lips sealed since his entrance into Pawneedom.
The iron-gray still stretched his neck over the corral, and the victor approached and patted it affectionately, but did not utter a word.
The tarry of the Crow in the village, and the scene at the horse-pen, had occupied several hours, and the night was well advanced when the last incident occurred. His absence was not missed; several Indians had seen the Pawnee join him, and they, no doubt, thought that they were yet together about the corral.
At length Sleeping Bear walked slowly back toward the village, and entered his lodge, but a moment later he emerged again.