Long before this he had drawn his knife, and
now he used it, plunging the blade into the young man's side.
Cunning and successful as was the savage's ruse, it failed signally,
for to get hold of the Shawnee was all Joe wanted. Feeling the sharp
pain as they fell together, he reached his hand behind him and
caught Silvertip's wrist. Exerting all his power, he wrenched the
Indian's arm so that it was not only dislocated, but the bones
cracked.
Silvertip saw his fatal mistake, but he uttered no sound. Crippled,
though he was, he yet made a supreme effort, but it was as if he had
been in the hands of a giant. The lad handled him with remorseless
and resistless fury. Suddenly he grasped the knife, which Silvertip
had been unable to hold with his crippled hand, and thrust it deeply
into the Indian's side.
All Silvertip's muscles relaxed as if a strong tension had been
removed. Slowly his legs straightened, his arms dropped, and from
his side gushed a dark flood. A shadow crept over his face, not dark
nor white, but just a shadow. His eyes lost their hate; they no
longer saw the foe, they looked beyond with gloomy question, and
then were fixed cold in death. Silvertip died as he had lived--a
chief.
Joe glared round for Girty. He was gone, having slipped away during
the fight.
Pages:
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243