“Now, Lone Wolf, we’ll make our accounts square!”

CHAPTER XXIII.

BORDER CHIVALRY.

As the scout uttered these words, the Apache whirled like lightning and drew his knife.  His swarthy, painted face glowed with passion, and his black eyes twinkled with a deadly light.  Seeing that he had no weapon but the knife, Sut Simpson, with a certain rude chivalry that did him credit, left his rifle leaning against the tree, while he advanced with a weapon corresponding to that of his enemy, so that both stood upon the same footing.

“Lone Wolf is glad to meet the white dog that he has hunted so long,” said the chieftain, speaking English like a native.

With a sardonic grin Sut replied: 

“That’s played out, old Pockared”—­alluding to the chieftain’s pitted face.  “I’m just as mad at yer as I kin be, without yer getting up any fancy didoes to upset my nerves.  I’ve come for yer this time, and the best thing yer kin do is to proceed to business.”

They were facing each other with drawn knives—­almost toe to toe, and each waiting for the other to lead off.  It would have been hard to tell which stood the best chance of winning.

Lone Wolf suddenly sprang forward like a panther, and made a vicious lunge with his knife, Sut easily avoiding it by leaping back, when, in turn, he made a similar attempt upon his adversary, who escaped in precisely the same manner.  But the scout noticed an unaccountable thing.  Lone Wolf had dropped his knife!

True, he picked it up like a flash, and put himself on guard, but how it was that a veteran like him could have made such a slip was totally inexplainable to his foe.  But the explanation came the next moment, when the chief, without removing his eyes from those of the white man, cautiously changed the knife to his left hand.  His right arm was injured in some way, so that it was unreliable.  He had shown this, first by dropping the weapon while attempting to use it, and he showed it again by shifting it to his left hand, thus placing himself at a frightful disadvantage.

Sut saw no wound, yet there could be no doubt of the truth, and his feelings changed on the instant.  He felt himself the meanest of men to attempt to overcome an almost helpless foe.

“Lone Wolf,” said he, still looking him straight in the eyes, “why don’t yer hold yer knife in the hand that yer generally do?”

“Lone Wolf can slay the dog of a white man with which hand he may choose.”

“Yer haven’t been able to do it with both hands during all these years that you’ve been tryin’, when yer’ve had yer whole tribe to help yer; but don’t make a fool of yerself, Lone Wolf.  Are your right arm hurt?”

“Lone Wolf will fight the white dog with his strong arm.”