unchecked blow, the Indian swept sternly at him with the full force of his extended arm.  The caution of the chief, and the luck of a little thing, each in turn prevented the ending of the combat at its outset.  Half falling onward, the Mexican slipped upon a tuft of the hard gray grass and went down headlong.  A murmur arose from the Indians, who thought at first that their leader’s blow had proved fatal.  A sharp call from Curly seemed to bring the Mexican to his feet at once.  The Indian lost the half moment which was his own.  Again the two engaged, White Calf now seeking to disconcert the Mexican, whom he discovered to be less agile than himself.  Darting in and out, jumping rapidly from side to side, and uttering the while the sharp staccato of his war call, he passed about the Mexican, half circling and returning, his eye fixed straight upon the other’s, and his war club again and again hurtling dangerously close to his opponents head.  One shade more of courage, one touch more of the daring necessary to carry him a single foot closer in, and the victory had been with him, for no human skull could have withstood the impact of a pound of flint impelled by an arm so powerful.

Juan the mozo stood almost motionless, his own club half raised, the great muscles of his arm now showing under the brown skin as he clinched hard the tiny stem of the weapon.  He seemed not perturbed by the menaces of the chieftain, and though unaware that the latter must in time suffer from the violence of his own exertions, nevertheless remained the fuller master of his own forces by simply waiting in this one position.  His readiness for offence was the one defence that he offered.  His brute courage had no mental side.  The whistling of this threatening weapon was unheeded, since it did not hurt him.  He glared in fury at the Indian, but always his arm remained half raised, his foot, but shifted, side stepping and turning only enough to keep him with front toward his antagonist.  The desperate, eager waiting of his attitude was awful.  The whisper of the wings of death was on the air about this place.  The faces of the white men witnessing the spectacle were drawn and haggard.  A gulp, a sigh, a half groan now and again came from their parted lips.

White Calf pursued his rapid tactics for some moments, and a dozen times sped a blow which still fell short.  He gained confidence, and edged closer in.  He feinted and sprang from side to side, but gained little ground.  His people saw his purpose, and murmurs of approval urged him on.  It seemed that in a moment he must land the fatal blow upon his apparently half-stupefied opponent.  He sought finally to deliver this blow, but the effort was near to proving his ruin.  Just as he swung forward, the giant, with a sudden contraction of all his vast frame, sprang out and brought down his war axe in a sheer downward blow at half-arm’s length.  White Calf with lightning speed changed his own attack