Both men feinted, but did not come to close quarters. They began to breathe heavily, not so much from exhaustion as from excitement. The wind hissed between their locked teeth. Their eyes were like those of mad beasts. Their bare feet shifted on the rocks with a shuffling sound, but otherwise they were noiseless in their tigerlike movements. Suddenly, with a shriek like a wildcat, Boyd Bennett leaped at his foe. He thought he saw an opening. This was what the scout intended, and he gave back just a little. But before Bennett was upon him the other glided to one side and struck sharply at the man. The blades clashed and sparks flew from the steel. At the same moment the men clutched each other by the left wrist, and at last the issue was really joined! There they stood panting, foot to foot and breast to breast, their fingers locked about each other’s wrists like steel bands, the knife-blades “slithering” against each other, every muscle in their bodies as tense as steel wires. The pressure of blade against blade was all that kept the men apart. If one gave an atom in an endeavor to stab his foe, he would open his own breast to the knife. This was a foregone conclusion. The pressure of knife against knife seemed a frail barrier; but that was all that lay between the two men and sudden and awful death! The man who made the first reckless move, or the one whose bodily forces first gave before the strain, was the one who ran the greatest peril. To the cool man, the brave man, the man with iron nerve and an undaunted patience--to him would come victory! Knowing this, Buffalo Bill took the only advantage that remained to him. His own mind was calm, his brain steady, his vision unclouded by hot rage. _His_ emotion was a sort of cold fury, as deadly as the steel blade, the handle of which he clutched. At last he had his enemy before him--within his grasp--face to face and steel to steel! And so he taunted him, knowing that Bennett’s brain and heart were already afire with hatred. “You’ve no girl now to conquer, Boyd Bennett!” the scout hissed. “You’re not robbing the cradle now. Look out! Another mistake like that and I’ll have you!” “Curse you, you’re a dead man already!” cried the bandit. “I’m as good as a dozen dead ones. Don’t fool yourself. Ah!” “Not yet!” “But almost--almost, my boy! I’ll get you the next time. My brave Death Killer--medicine chief of the Sioux! Ah-ha, you villain! You’ve played _that_ game to the end, too.” Bennett fairly gnashed his teeth and put forth furious endeavors to break down his antagonist’s guard. “Save your breath, man,” said Cody, knowing that his advice would have exactly a contrary effect upon Bennett. “I’m only playing with you yet.” “It’s the worst game _you_ ever played, Bill Cody!” Cody thought so himself, but he smiled back into the other’s eyes, and the man’s rage grew. “I’ll get you yet!” roared Bennett. “But not that way,” muttered the scout. “Ah! _Now_ we have it!”