Then Jon Landis fought with the one who, with raised pick, stood ready to avenge the death of his father, and the desecration of his other dead. The struggle was not long, but they fought as men do who know that but one man shall live when the combat be done. Twice the pick descending almost struck the bared head of the white man; thrice his adversary forced him to the very water’s edge. Landis knew he was fighting for his life, and he watched his opportunity. It came. Eluding that rain of death-meant blows, he caught the Indian close to him, and with a quick movement flung the pick far out into the river. Then they clinched in the final struggle for life that to the white man or the brown man is equally dear. Back and forth, swaying and bending, the hot breath of each in the other’s face, they moved over the narrow confine. It was not for long; for--with one mighty final effort--Landis wrenched himself loose, caught at the other, shoved--flung him off, and it was over. Jon Landis stood there alone. The fleshless skull grinned out at him from the heap of bones. Landis shivered; he felt cold. Overhead, clouds like swansdown were beautiful against the sapphire blue of the afternoon sky. A soft wind blowing down the valley brought him the sound of a locomotive’s whistle; and the breeze was sweet with the breath of spring flowers growing upon the banks, away from the bluffs. A little brown bird began to warble from the buck-brush across the river. It must have been five minutes that Landis stood there without moving. Then he picked up the shovel and walked over to the Indian woman’s bones. It did not take him long to dump them into the little gully where the oil ran, and to cover them over with loose earth from the place she had lain for thirty years. Afterward, he scraped the earth about with the broken shovel, to destroy all footprints. Then he dropped it into the stream. He would never come here again; and now there was no evidence that he had ever been there. Then he climbed the bluffs. Nor did he look back as he walked rapidly away. [Illustration] THE BLUE-EYED CHIEF It sounds a bit melodramatic, in these days of “Carlisle” education for the Indian, and with “Lo” himself on the lecture platform, to tell of a band of one time hostile red men having a white chief--once a captive--who so learned to love his captivity that when freedom was to be had for the taking, he refused it, and still lives among them, voluntarily. Contentedly--happily? Who knows? He says so; and with no proof to the contrary we must needs believe him.