He might well have recoiled at the terrible figure that rushed to meet him; in all his wild life of risks he had never before been confronted by anything so instinct with terror, so ominous of death.

But he did not have time to take thought before he was overwhelmed by his resistless enemy.
It was an affair of but a few moments.

The Indian threw his tomahawk but Henry parried the blade upon the barrel of his rifle which he still carried in his left hand, and his own tomahawk was whirled in a glittering curve about his head.

Now it was launched with mighty force and the savage, cloven to the chin, sank soundless to the earth; he had been smitten down by a force so sudden and absolute that he died instantly.
The victor, elate though he was, paused, and quickly reloaded his rifle--wilderness caution would allow nothing else--and afterwards advancing looked first at the savage whom he had slain in the open and then at the other in the bushes.

There was no pity in him, his only emotion was a great sense of power; they had hunted him, two to one, and they born in the woods, but he had outwitted and slain them both.