The utmost agility of Hard-Heart had not sufficed
to extricate himself in season from the fallen beast. He saw that his
case was desperate. Feeling for his knife, he took the blade between a
finger and thumb, and cast it with admirable coolness at his advancing
foe. The keen weapon whirled a few times in the air, and its point
meeting the naked breast of the impetuous Sioux, the blade was buried
to the buck-horn haft.
Mahtoree laid his hand on the weapon, and seemed to hesitate whether
to withdraw it or not. For a moment his countenance darkened with the
most inextinguishable hatred and ferocity, and then, as if inwardly
admonished how little time he had to lose, he staggered to the edge of
the sands, and halted with his feet in the water. The cunning and
duplicity, which had so long obscured the brighter and nobler traits
of his character, were lost in the never dying sentiment of pride,
which he had imbibed in youth.
"Boy of the Loups!" he said with a smile of grim satisfaction, "the
scalp of a mighty Dahcotah shall never dry in Pawnee smoke!"
Drawing the knife from the wound, he hurled it towards the enemy in
disdain.
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