The Indian chief raised his hand and came forward, upon his face some indescribable emotion which removed it from mere savagery, some half-chivalrous impulse born perhaps of a barbaric egotism and self-confidence, perhaps of that foolhardy and vain love of risk which had made White Calf chief of his people and kept him so.  He stood silent for a moment, his arms folded across his breast with that dramatic instinct never absent from the Indian’s mind.  When he spoke, the scorn and bravado in his voice were apparent, and his words were understood though his speech was broken.

“Big chief!” he said, pointing toward Juan.  “White Calf, me big chief,” pointing to himself.  “Heap fight!” Then he clinched his hands and thrust them forward, knuckles downward, the Indian sign for death, for falling dead or being struck down.  With his delivery this was unmistakable.  “Me,” he said, “me dead; white man go.  Big chief” (meaning Juan), “him dead; Injun heap take horse,” including in the sweep of his gesture all the outfit of the white men.

“He wants to fight Juan by himself,” cried Franklin.

“Yes, and b’gad he’s doin’ it for pure love of a fight, and hurray for him!” cried Battersleigh.  “Hurray, boys!  Give him a cheer!” And, carried away for the moment by Battersleigh’s own dare-deviltry, as well as a man’s admiration for pluck, they did rise and give him a cheer, even to Sam, who had hitherto been in line, but very silent.  They cheered old White Calf, self-offered champion, knowing that he had death in a hundred blankets at his back.

The meaning of the white men was also clear.  The grim face of White Calf relaxed for a moment into something like a half-smile of pride.  “Heap fight!” he repeated simply, his eyes fixed on the vast form of the babbling giant.  He dropped his blanket fully back from his body and stood with his eyes boring forward at his foe, his arms crossed arrogantly over his naked, ridging trunk, proud, confident, superb, a dull-hued statue whose outlines none who witnessed ever again forgot.

There was no time to parley or to decide.  Fate acted rapidly through the agency of a half-witted mind.  Juan the Mexican was regarding the Indian intently.  Perhaps he gathered but little of the real meaning of that which had transpired, but something in the act or look of the chieftain aroused and enraged him.  He saw and understood the challenge, and he counted nothing further.  With one swift upheaval of his giant body, he shook off restraining hands and sprang forward.  He stripped off his own light upper garment, and stood as naked and more colossal than his foe.  Weapon of his own he had none, nor cared for any.  More primitive even than his antagonist, he sought for nothing letter than the first weapon of primeval man, a club, which should extend the sweep of his own arm.  From the hand of the nearest Indian he snatched a war club, not dissimilar to that which hung at White Calf’s