into defence, sweeping up his weapon to defend his head.  On the instant his arm was beaten down.  It fell helpless at his side, the axe only hanging to his hand by means of the loop passed around the wrist.  A spasm of pain crossed his face at the racking agony in the nerves of his arm, yet he retained energy enough to spring back, and still he stood erect.  A cry of dismay burst from the followers of the red champion and a keen yell from the whites, unable to suppress their exultation, Yet at the next moment the partisans of either had become silent; for, though the Indian seemed disabled, the mozo stood before him weaponless.  The tough, slender rod which made the handle of his war axe had snapped like a pipestem under the force of his blow, and even the rawhide covering was torn loose from the head of stone, which lay, with a foot of the broken hard-wood staff still attached, upon the ground between the two antagonists.

Juan cast away the bit of rod still in his hand and rushed forward against his enemy, seeking to throttle him with his naked fingers.  White Calf, quicker-witted of the two, slung the thong of his war club free from his crippled right hand, and, grasping the weapon in his left, still made play with it about his head.  The giant none the less rushed in, receiving upon his shoulder a blow from the left hand of the Indian which cut the flesh clean to the collar bone, in a great bruised wound which was covered at once with a spurt of blood.  The next instant the two fell together, the Indian beneath his mighty foe, and the two writhing in a horrible embrace.  The hands of the mozo gripped the Indian’s throat, and he uttered a rasping, savage roar of triumph, more beastlike than human, as he settled hard upon the chest of the enemy whose life he was choking out.  Again rose the savage cries of the on-lookers.

Not even yet had the end come.  There was a heaving struggle, a sharp cry, and Juan sprang back, pressing his hand against his side, where blood came from between his fingers.  The Indian had worked his left hand to the sheath of his knife, and stabbed the giant who had so nearly overcome him.  Staggering, the two again stood erect, and yet again came the cries from the many red men and the little band of whites who were witnessing this barbarous and brutal struggle.  Bows were bending among the blankets, but the four rifles now pointed steadily out.  One movement would have meant death to many, but that movement was fore-stalled in the still more rapid happenings of the unfinished combat.  For one-half second the two fighting men stood apart, the one stunned at his unexpected wound, the other startled that the wound had not proved fatal.  Seeing his antagonist still on his feet.  White Calf for the first time lost courage.  With the knife still held in his left hand, he hesitated whether to join again in the encounter, or himself to guard against the attack of a foe so proof to injury.  He half turned and gave back for a pace.