It now became a desperate but silent struggle for life. From the red man’s mouth, the old frontiersman’s hand was shifted to his throat, which was caught with a grip of steel. The Indian struggled desperately, first kicking heavily and then drawing up a knee against Barringford’s breast. Then he tried to use his tomahawk again, and hit the frontiersman a glancing blow on the shoulder. The hatchet fell, and in a twinkling the Indian had Barringford by the throat, in a clutch equally firm and relentless. Like two bulldogs that have a death-grip and will not let go, white man and Indian rolled over and over, on the rocks and in the bushes, each doing all in his power to get the better of the other. The Indian was muscular, and his strength was equal if not superior to that of his white adversary. But Barringford had secured the first grip, and the red man’s breath was fast leaving him. His tongue stuck out, his eyes bulged from their sockets, and he could not utter even so much as a faint gurgle. It was at this moment that an interruption came. Another form glided into the midst of the bushes. It was a second Indian, and a glance showed him the condition of affairs. Without stopping to use his tomahawk or his knife he kicked Barringford heavily in the left ear. Then followed other blows, and with a groan the old frontiersman stretched out on the rocks unconscious. As the hold on his throat relaxed the Indian who had been in the death struggle gave a gasp and stared about him. The coming of his fellow warrior had undoubtedly saved his life. “Where did that white man come from?” asked the second Indian, as he gave Barringford a close look. “Cushina knows not,” was the faint reply. It was some time before the other could get back his breath. “Are there others about?” At this question Cushina shrugged his shoulders. “Did he come from the cave, think you?” “Perhaps—all of the whites were driven to that shelter, like so many dogs of the prairie.” “It may not be so. Others may be at hand. We must be careful. Moon Eye has news of some soldiers. They may be marching in this direction.” “Then Moon Eye himself is here?” “Yes.” The first warrior drew a long breath and then brought from his girdle a keen hunting knife. He felt of its edge with satisfaction. “Mist of the Lake has come to the aid of Cushina and has brought the white man to grief,” said he, looking at the other closely. “Does Mist of the Lake claim the scalp?” At this query the second Indian shrugged his shoulders. “Does Cushina still wish to linger in the footsteps of Laughing Eyes and make her his bride?” he asked, after another pause. Cushina winced at this question. Both he and Mist of the Lake were in love with the same Indian maiden. As Mist of the Lake had saved his life he was bound, according to the laws of his tribe, to give his rival a clear field in his wooing. “Laughing Eyes is Mist of the Lake’s—if she will have him,” he said, in a low voice.