"Paleface--heap--liar," growled the Indian. His dark eyes glowed
craftily, while his hand dropped, apparently in careless habit, to
the haft of his tomahawk.
Joe swung his long arm; his big fist caught the Shawnee on the jaw,
sending him to the ground. Uttering a frightful yell, Silvertip drew
his weapon and attempted to rise, but the moment's delay in seizing
the hatchet, was fatal to his design. Joe was upon him with
tigerlike suddenness. One kick sent the tomahawk spinning, another
landed the Shawnee again on the ground. Blind with rage, Silvertip
leaped up, and without a weapon rushed at his antagonist; but the
Indian was not a boxer, and he failed to get his hands on Joe.
Shifty and elusive, the lad dodged around the struggling savage.
One, two, three hard blows staggered Silvertip, and a fourth,
delivered with the force of Joe's powerful arm, caught the Indian
when he was off his balance, and felled him, battered and bloody, on
the grass. The surrounding Indians looked down at the vanquished
Shawnee, expressing their approval in characteristic grunts.
With Lance prancing proudly, and Mose leaping lovingly beside him,
Joe walked back to his lodge. Whispering Winds sprang to meet him
with joyful face. She had feared the outcome of trouble with the
Shawnee, but no queen ever bestowed upon returning victorious lord a
loftier look of pride, a sweeter glance of love, than the Indian
maiden bent upon her lover.
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