“I mean them no harm,” declared the truculent brave. “All men say that Long Hair is a great warrior and a mighty champion among his own people. If that is so, he should not fear me.” “Fear you!” yelled Nick Wharton angrily. “It ’u’d take a sight more than you, ye durned red devil, ter scare the bravest man thet ever straddled a hoss on the plains.” In his indignation the old trapper spoke in English, which the Indian did not understand. But he knew from the tone that what was said was not particularly complimentary to himself, so he turned his piercing black eyes on Wharton with an angry glance. “If Long Hair will not wrestle with me, perhaps the old chief who roars like a bull will do so,” he said sarcastically. “Sure, thar’s nothin’ better I’d like than ter break yer neck, ye durned savage,” retorted old Nick. “Let him alone, old pard,” Buffalo Bill said soothingly. “I’ll take him on, if one of us must. I guess your muscles aren’t quite as tough, or your limbs as supple as they used to be when you were a young man.” “You be everlastingly gol-durned, Billy Cody!” exclaimed Nick, now thoroughly incensed. “I kalk’late I kin tackle a blamed Indian still, even if I hev come ter be an old man. You let him get at me--an’ don’t you or Bill Hickok butt in.” “All right! Go as far as you like, but try not to quite kill him,” laughed Cody. Nick Wharton advanced into the center of the ring of redskins, in which his adversary was already standing in an attitude of defiant challenge. Old Nick was a husky fellow, despite his age, but he did not look the physical equal of the red man, who was a giant over six feet tall, with muscles that stood out like masses of whipcord all over his arms and legs. “I guess I may be a gone coon,” said the old trapper, as he removed his hunting jacket and stared critically at his opponent. “I used ter be powerful strong on the wrassle onct, but I guess I’m weakening a bit now. In all my wrasslin’ days, I reckon I never hit up agin’ a tougher proposition than thet thar redskin.” Old Nick advanced boldly to the encounter, but his anticipation was soon justified. The redskin rushed suddenly forward and had him in a resistless grip almost before he understood what was happening. He tried to struggle, but, with a mighty heave, the Indian sent him squarely to the ground and rose from his prostrate body with a sarcastic laugh. “Will either of the other palefaces wrestle with Leaping Dog now?” he asked. Cody and Hickok both jumped up, ready to accept the challenge and avenge their friend, but Wharton had already risen from the ground, and he stepped in between them. “Wait a minute, old pards!” he said. “This hyar is my funeral. I ain’t had my bellyful yet, not by a long shot! I want the best two out of three.” When Leaping Dog understood this he said that he was perfectly willing. He would throw the white man again, as he had thrown him before.