“It is no use, my brother,” said Red Cloud, taking Nick Wharton aside for a moment. “In wrestling we are all as children in the hands of Leaping Dog. He is a champion against whom no man can stand. He has beaten the best wrestlers of all the tribes.” Old Wharton said nothing, but a look of grim determination came into his face that meant volumes. The other Indians seemed to be of the same opinion as their chief, for they shouted to the white man not to meet their champion again, saying that he might hurt him seriously. “Gol-durn him, let him go as fur as he kin!” muttered Nick savagely, as he stepped forward and faced his late victor. Leaping Dog did not seem to hold his opponent so cheaply this time. He saw, by the glitter in the old trapper’s eyes, that he was indeed a man to be feared. He held his body as tense and rigid as that of a panther, and his coal-black eyes did not waver for a second in their baleful glance into those of the white man. Suddenly he leaped like a wild beast straight at the throat of his opponent, seeking to grapple him round the neck--a favorite hold among the less sportsman-like of Indian wrestlers. But Nick had seen Indians wrestle too often to allow himself to be caught in that manner. He showed an agility surprising in so old a man. With a movement even quicker than that of the Indian, he side-stepped, and, before his foe could recover his balance, he had grasped him round the shoulders in a clever hold that left him little chance to break away. After swaying to and fro for a few moments, he forced the redskin backward until his shoulders fairly touched the ground. The Indians were dumb with intense surprise for a second or two, and then they hailed the victory with loud whoops of delight. Leaping Dog, being a surly fellow, was not popular in the tribe. As the wrestling champion he had always been overbearing in his manner, and they were therefore glad to see his pride meet with a fall. “Quits!” cried Nick. “Now fur the rubber!” Leaping Dog got to his feet, looking angry and crestfallen. There was an expression of fierce vindictiveness in his eyes as he faced Wharton for the final bout. Before they could clinch, Red Cloud rushed in between them, put his hand down to the brave’s belt, and pulled out a knife, which he tossed to the ground at Buffalo Bill’s feet. There was nothing wrong in the fellow having the knife. All the braves were wearing one, as they commonly did; but Red Cloud had caught that evil look in Leaping Dog’s eyes, and he thought that the man might be tempted to use his weapon, if he were worsted again. Leaping Dog glared at his chief savagely, but said nothing. A chorus of emphatic “Ughs!” of approval went up from the Indians around the circle. It was clear that they did not think their chief’s suspicions were altogether unjust.