All the time Buffalo Bill had been standing in the shallow water
parleying with his enemy, he had been regaining his breath and his
strength, both sadly depleted by his swim across the river. Now he had
leaped ashore almost as fresh and strong as Bennett himself.
His leaping ashore had quite startled the bandit; but he did not give
back after his first cry of surprise and pain. He, too, was armed with
a bowie. They were indeed equal, and the bandit was no physical coward.
Colonel James Bowie, of Texas, invented a terrible weapon of defense
and offense when he gave the world the heavy hunting-knife which bears
his name. It is a long, slightly curved blade, having a razor-sharp
two-edged point and a heavy back. It is fitted with a handle and
guard, and is always carried in a sheath. It can be thrown with great
precision by the old-time “knife-fighter”; but it is at close quarters
that the true wickedness of the weapon comes to light.
In a fight with these knives death must surely result--many times to
both antagonists; surely to one. One stroke does it; there is no need
of a second if the first really gets home. A strong blow would sever a
man’s head from his body!
Both the scout and Boyd Bennett were familiar with the use of the
great knife. Facing each other, left foot forward, stooping slightly,
they circled about each other like two cocks looking for a chance to
strike. The men’s eyes were fastened upon each other, like the eyes of
pugilists. In the expanding and contracting of the eyeball they saw the
intent of their antagonist to make a move.
Crouching, the two shifted about on the rocks. The ground was not good
for such cautious work; but one did not know it better than the other.
It was as fair to Bennett as to the scout.
Both men feinted, but did not come to close quarters. They began to
breathe heavily, not so much from exhaustion as from excitement. The
wind hissed between their locked teeth. Their eyes were like those
of mad beasts. Their bare feet shifted on the rocks with a shuffling
sound, but otherwise they were noiseless in their tigerlike movements.
Suddenly, with a shriek like a wildcat, Boyd Bennett leaped at his foe.
He thought he saw an opening. This was what the scout intended, and
he gave back just a little. But before Bennett was upon him the other
glided to one side and struck sharply at the man. The blades clashed
and sparks flew from the steel. At the same moment the men clutched
each other by the left wrist, and at last the issue was really joined!
There they stood panting, foot to foot and breast to breast, their
fingers locked about each other’s wrists like steel bands, the
knife-blades “slithering” against each other, every muscle in their
bodies as tense as steel wires. The pressure of blade against blade was
all that kept the men apart. If one gave an atom in an endeavor to stab
his foe, he would open his own breast to the knife. This was a foregone
conclusion. The pressure of knife against knife seemed a frail
barrier; but that was all that lay between the two men and sudden and
awful death!
The man who made the first reckless move, or the one whose bodily
forces first gave before the strain, was the one who ran the greatest
peril. To the cool man, the brave man, the man with iron nerve and an
undaunted patience--to him would come victory!
Knowing this, Buffalo Bill took the only advantage that remained to
him. His own mind was calm, his brain steady, his vision unclouded by
hot rage. _His_ emotion was a sort of cold fury, as deadly as the steel
blade, the handle of which he clutched. At last he had his enemy before
him--within his grasp--face to face and steel to steel!
And so he taunted him, knowing that Bennett’s brain and heart were
already afire with hatred.
“You’ve no girl now to conquer, Boyd Bennett!” the scout hissed.
“You’re not robbing the cradle now. Look out! Another mistake like that
and I’ll have you!”
“Curse you, you’re a dead man already!” cried the bandit.
“I’m as good as a dozen dead ones. Don’t fool yourself. Ah!”
“Not yet!”
“But almost--almost, my boy! I’ll get you the next time. My brave Death
Killer--medicine chief of the Sioux! Ah-ha, you villain! You’ve played
_that_ game to the end, too.”
Bennett fairly gnashed his teeth and put forth furious endeavors to
break down his antagonist’s guard.
“Save your breath, man,” said Cody, knowing that his advice would have
exactly a contrary effect upon Bennett. “I’m only playing with you yet.”
“It’s the worst game _you_ ever played, Bill Cody!”
Cody thought so himself, but he smiled back into the other’s eyes, and
the man’s rage grew.
“I’ll get you yet!” roared Bennett.
“But not that way,” muttered the scout. “Ah! _Now_ we have it!”
With a sudden turn of his wrist he almost brought Bennett to his knees.
Both men clung so tightly to each other’s left wrists, however, that
little advantage was to be gained by sudden twists. It was the steady
pressure of steel against steel that would finally gain the day. One
arm must be stronger than the other--one foot more skilful--one eye
more true.
“This is a bad end for you, Boyd Bennett!” began Cody again.
He was scarcely panting himself; but the other was breathing hard,
gnashing his teeth, rolling his eyes, like a veritable madman. He
screamed with rage at this remark of the scout’s, and the froth flew
from his lips. If ever a man was mad, Boyd Bennett was that person.
“And all for what?” quoth the scout. “What did you make by it? The girl
would have nothing to do with you. Had you remained in Oak Heart’s camp
you might have finished me. But _not_ that way!” guarding himself from
a furious lunge of the other’s knife.
“No, no, my boy! You made a grave error. Back there you had some power.
You might have had the upper hand over me. Now _I_ have it!”
“Not yet!” roared Bennett.
“Oh, yes, I have! I’m only playing with you, I tell you. When I am
ready I’ll put you where the dogs won’t bite you! Ah! how’s that?”
Boyd had made a furious lunge; and his hand had slipped on Cody’s
wrist. Quick as lightning the scout slipped aside, broke from the
death-grapple, and slit the point of his knife up Bennett’s upper arm,
making a deep, ugly wound. The blood fairly spurted from the severed
artery. It was then but a matter of a few minutes before Bennett would
be helpless, unless he managed to finish Cody first.
They circled about each other again, watchful as cats. Once or twice
they tried to grapple, but it amounted to nothing. Bennett’s wound was
troubling him sorely. The blood was running in a stream from the point
of his elbow.
“Say your prayers--if you have any to say, you scoundrel!” exclaimed
the scout sternly. “For you pay for your murders and atrocities here
and now! If you have killed that poor girl by your brutal treatment,
you pay for it in short order.”
Bennett leaped in at him. The scout gave back a bit, and suddenly his
foot slipped on a wet slab of rock. He fell to one knee. With a yell of
delight, the wounded bandit flung himself upon him.
It was not the scout’s finish, however. Cody had a wealth of reserve
force yet. He flung himself forward to meet Bennett’s charge, caught
his left wrist and the weight of the man’s body upon his left shoulder.
The scoundrel’s stroke overreached, and the pit of his stomach came in
heavy contact with his antagonist’s shoulder-bone.
That antagonist rose up suddenly and pitched Bennett clear over him.
The man landed on his head and shoulders, but, as though made of India
rubber, he bounded to his feet and faced Cody again.
He was panting for breath, his face was covered with blood, and
altogether he was a most terrible looking object. He had no intention
of giving up the fight, however. With a yell, he flung himself once
more at Cody--but this time wildly.
“’Tis the end at last, Boyd Bennett!” sang out the clarion voice of the
Border King.
The villain knew it. His eyes rolled, his teeth chattered, his mouth
was agape as he reentered the fray. Their left hands were locked again,
and the knives clashed. Steadily Cody forced his man back, back,
back--until a tree-trunk kept him from going farther. From a crouching
position the two men gradually stood erect. The pressure of Buffalo
Bill’s bowie against that of his antagonist became a force that the
latter could not meet. His arm went slowly back until the elbow struck
sharply against the tree-trunk.
With an awful scream of rage and deadly fear the fellow’s fingers
relaxed upon the handle of his bowie. The blade clattered to the
ground. He clutched feebly at Cody’s throat, and then----
It was indeed the knife to the hilt! Boyd Bennett slipped to the ground
and lay there, dead!