“Durn my cats, Buffler!” said old Nick, after he had glanced defiantly round the circle of Indians. “You are the queerest duck I ever struck in my galumpin’ existence. What in thunder d’ye want to butt into this yere controversy for? Let me tackle thet thar Irish mountain o’ flesh! I guess I kin manage to settle his hash for him.” The border king waved his friend aside, and whispered: “Be on the watch, Nick, in case any of the Indians tries to get me in the back while I am fighting him.” Wharton nodded, and promptly rested his hand upon his six-shooter in his belt, ready to whip it out and fire at a moment’s notice. The Indians formed a ring, which was speedily added to by hundreds of other braves who flocked to the scene from the camp fires near by. Buffalo Bill and the renegade stood in the center. Kennelly held his tomahawk, red with the blood of the slain Cheyenne, in his hand. Buffalo Bill did not possess such a weapon, but a Cheyenne brave stepped out of the circle of onlookers and handed one to him. It was a weird and impressive scene. The firelight cast a fitful glow on the faces of the duelists, and illumined their eyes as they circled around for a few moments, waiting the opportunity to send their sharp-edged weapons whizzing to the mark. Suddenly Kennelly stepped forward with a rapid motion and flung his tomahawk at the border king’s head. Buffalo Bill had held his eyes, just as the pugilist does those of his opponent, and instinctively he knew what was coming a second before Kennelly raised his hand. He flung himself forward, and the tomahawk passed harmlessly a foot above his head. “Wah!” cried the Indians, in admiration of the border king’s clever movement. Before the exclamation had died upon their lips, Buffalo Bill had darted forward and struck Kennelly a terrible blow on the crown, which cleft his head asunder almost to the chin. Bad Eye would trouble the peace of the border no more. The renegade had met with his deserts at last. CHAPTER VII. A BRISK ENGAGEMENT. The Indians gazed silently at the corpse of their white ally, and not one of them showed the slightest sign of grief or indignation at his death. Buffalo Bill had only done what many of them would have liked to do if they had possessed the courage and skill. The border king wrenched his dripping tomahawk from the skull of his fallen enemy, and, holding it tightly in his right hand, boldly faced the assembly of chiefs, with a questioning glance in his eyes that seemed to say: “Now, what are you going to do about it?” Nick Wharton stood by his side, with his hand on his six-shooter, ready to fight to the death. The bold aspect of the two scouts profoundly impressed the redskins, and not a thought of revenge crossed their minds.