“Thar’s a sombre, sullen sport among the Osages who’s troo name is the ‘Bob-cat,’ but who’s called the ‘Knife Thrower.’  The Bob-cat is one of the Osage forty.  Onknown to the others, this yere Bob-cat—­who it looks like is a mighty impressionable savage—­is himse’f in love with the dead Sunbright.  An’ he’s hot an’ cold because he’s fearful that in this battle of the bows the Lance’ll down Black Cloud an’ cheat him, the Bob-cat, of his own revenge.  The chance is too much; the Bob-cat can’t stand it an’ resolves to get his stack down first.  An’ so it happens that as Black Cloud an’ the Lance, painted in their war colours, is walkin’ to their places, a nine-inch knife flickers like a gleam of light from the hand of the Bob-cat, an’ merely to show that he ain’t called the ‘Knife Thrower’ for fun, catches Black Cloud flush in the throat, an’ goes through an’ up to the gyard at the knife-haft.  Black Cloud dies standin’, for the knife p’int bites his spine.

“No, son, no one gets arrested; Injuns don’t have jails, for the mighty excellent reason that no Injun culprit ever vamoses an’ runs away.  Injun crim’nals, that a-way, allers stands their hands an’ takes their hemlock.  The Osages, who for Injuns is some shocked at the Bob-cat’s interruption of the dooel—­it bein’ mighty onparliamentary from their standp’ints—­tries the Bob-cat in their triboonals for killin’ Black Cloud an’ he’s decided on as guilty accordin’ to their law.  They app’ints a day for the Bob-cat to be shot; an’ as he ain’t present at the trial none, leavin’ his end of the game to be looked after by his reelatives, they orders a kettle-tender or tribe crier to notify the Bob-cat when an’ where he’s to come an’ have said sentence execooted upon him.  When he’s notified, the Bob-cat don’t say nothin’; which is satisfactory enough, as thar’s nothin’ to be said, an’ every Osage knows the Bob-cat’ll be thar at the drop of the handkerchief if he’s alive.

“It so turns out; the Bob-cat’s thar as cool as wild plums.  He’s dressed in his best blankets an’ leggin’s; an’ his feathers an’ gay colours makes him a overwhelmin’ match for peacocks.  Thar’s a white spot painted over his heart.

“The chief of the Osages, who’s present to see jestice done, motions to the Bob-cat, an’ that gent steps to a red blanket an’ stands on its edge with all the blanket spread in front of him on the grass.  The Bob-cat stands on the edge, as he saveys when he’s plugged that he’ll fall for’ard on his face.  When a gent gets the gaff for shore, he falls for’ard.  If a party is hit an’ falls back’ards, you needn’t get excited none; he’s only creased an’ ’ll get over it.

“Wherefore, as I states, the Bob-cat stands on the edge of the blanket so it’s spread out in front to catch him as he drops.  Thar’s not a word spoke by either the Bob-cat or the onlookers, the latter openin’ out into a lane behind so the lead can go through.  When the Bob-cat’s ready, his cousin, a buck whose name is Little Feather, walks to the front of the blanket an’ comes down careful with his Winchester on the white mark over the Bob-cat’s heart.  Thar’s a moment’s silence as the Bob-cat’s cousin runs his eye through the sights; thar’s a flash an’ a hatful of gray smoke; the white spot turns red with blood; an’ then the Bob-cat falls along on his face as soft as a sack of corn.