Now followed an uphill race more desperate, if that were possible, than the downhill roll. The black giant was nearer the goal, but the red giant had longer and nimbler legs, which made it again about nip and tuck between the black and the red. Leaving their tracks to be traced by great handfuls of iron-weeds, caught at and uprooted in the scramble, up they struggled, with might and main, and with feet that could not quicken their speed, however fear might urge or hope incite. Panting and all but spent, the two giants gained the top of the hill at the same instant--Burl nearest his ax, where it lay on the ground, Black Thunder nearest his gun, where it leaned against the log. Five long strides more and the Indian had laid his hand on the loaded weapon, when having snatched up his ax, the negro hurled it with engine-like force at the savage, the ponderous head striking him full on the hip and sending him sprawling to the ground. Burl was making all speed to recover his weapon, this time, with its cleaving edge, to deal the death-blow without fail, when, before he could do so, Black Thunder, though powerless to walk or stand, whirled himself from under his victor's uplifted hand, and with a few gigantic flounces had regained the brink of the steep. Burl sent his battle-ax after him with a right good will, though not with right good aim, the missile merely inflicting a flesh wound in the enemy's arm. The next moment, with a loud whoop of defiance and scorn, Black Thunder had flung him away sheer over the brink of the steep. Hastily snatching up one of the Indian's rifles, Burl ran to the brow of the hill, and taking deliberate aim at the rolling body far down there, fired. Up came ringing a cry--a death-yell, so it would seem, so fierce it was, and wild and drear. The moment thereafter, now rolling with frightful rapidity, over the river bank vanished the Wyandot giant. Chapter XI. HOW LITTLE BUSHIE FIGURED IN THE FIGHT.