It became clear that Young Elk was afflicted with as quick a temper as vexed the white youth, for he made a blind, headlong rush, as if to carry everything before him. As he dashed on, his arms sawed the air like a windmill. Victor, never more cool and self-possessed, parried for a moment or two until another opening offered, when he drove his fist again into the flaming countenance with a force that sent his antagonist flat upon his back. He had scored a clean knockdown. But the Shoshone was not yet vanquished. He bounded to his feet as if made of rubber, and with more coolness than before advanced again upon his antagonist. Each was now in a mental state to do full justice to his own prowess. Several minutes were spent in “sparring for an opening,” but Victor Shelton quickly proved he was superior in skill. He dodged and parried several blows, and, when he landed again, it was the most effective stroke yet done. He delivered his fist accurately upon the jaw of the grinning youth, who again went down. Victor sprang forward and stood over him, waiting for the Shoshone to rise that he might give him the finishing blow. Young Elk lay as if “taking the count.” He was dazed for the moment by the terrific blows he had received, and all the fight was knocked out of him. He looked up at the young gladiator, then rose, and, instead of facing him, turned and ran at full speed down the ridge. The amazed Victor took two or three steps in pursuit, but immediately saw that he was not the equal of the other in fleetness, and drew back. The exasperated chief shouted to his son to return, but he was too panic-stricken to obey, and continued running. Victor was thrown into wild rage by his disappointment. He was not yet through with his foe—though it would seem that he ought to have been—and he wheeled around, panting, and looking for some one upon whom to vent his wrath. “What are you gaping at?” The question was addressed to the Antelope, standing bewildered and mystified by the whirlwind rush of events. Before he could answer, if he had been disposed to do so, Victor drove his fist into the partly painted face and toppled the owner over on his back. He was heard to grunt as he struck the ground, and, hastily clambering to his feet, he too turned and fled after his still running brother as if death were at his heels. “I’ll fight _you_, if you want it,” called Victor, striding in front of the chief, who probably did not understand his meaning. “Fetch on all the Shoshones in the country, and I’ll tumble them on top of one another.” But George Shelton and Mul-tal-la saw the moment had come to interfere. The latter hastily stepped up to the lad and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. George did the same. “Come, Victor,” he said, “you have done enough; you have won your gun, and now don’t spoil everything by your foolishness.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XVI