“If he overcomes me, he may take my scalp; but if I slay him there must be no more disputing of my orders. My brothers, the Sioux, chose me for their war chief in this fight, and I will be obeyed.” The young chief who had denounced Kennelly most hotly eagerly accepted this challenge, and begged his red comrades to let him act as their champion. After a few minutes’ consultation among themselves, they agreed. Kennelly watched them from the corner of his squint eye, but pretended to be utterly uninterested in the matter which spelled life or death to him. The young chief threw off his buffalo robe and stepped out into an open space near the fire, naked to the waist, but gorgeously painted with the war colors of his tribe. He was a Cheyenne. As he stood in the firelight, straight as a young sapling, with his right hand resting upon the tomahawk in his belt, he looked a formidable foe. Kennelly glanced at him for a few moments through half-closed eyelids, and then yawned sleepily and knocked the ashes out of the bowl of his pipe. The Indians, on the one side, and the two scouts, hidden behind the bushes on the other, watched the scene with interest. The young chief stamped his foot impatiently, and Kennelly slowly raised his huge, bulky form from the ground. Once he was upon his feet, however, a wonderful change came over him. Seated upon the ground, he had seemed as lazy and inert as a hog, but now his body was as tense and active as that of a panther. Stealthily he crept toward the Indian, and they looked into one another’s eyes as intently as if they were both hypnotized. An old Crow chieftain gave the signal for the duel to commence by dropping his tomahawk to the ground. Instantly the young Cheyenne rushed forward, whirled his tomahawk around his head, and flung it straight at the skull of his enemy. But he had reckoned without his adversary’s lightninglike quickness of eye. Kennelly ducked just in time to escape the deadly missile, which tore off part of one of the feathers in his headdress. Straightening himself immediately, he flung his own tomahawk at the Cheyenne, burying it deep in his skull. The man staggered, yelling his death whoop; but before he could fall to the ground Kennelly leaped upon him, caught him in his arms as if he was a baby, and tossed him high into the air over his own head. He fell to the ground, and when the other Indians rushed up to examine him they found that not only was his skull cleft, but that his neck had been broken by the terrible fall. Bad Eye calmly drew his knife and took the dead man’s scalp, although he knew that that act would doubly enrage the already furious Cheyennes. Then, holding the bloodstained knife above his head, and dangling the scalp in the other hand, he cried: “I have overcome your champion, oh, chiefs! Who will be next to yield up his scalp to Bad Eye?”