The three Indians pressed their faces against the ground; they
dreamed not of harm from us, but Okee was in the merciless hail
and the first thunder of the year, now pealing through the wood.
Suddenly Diccon raised himself upon his elbow, and looked across
at me. Our eyes had no sooner met than his hand was at his bosom.
The savage nearest him, feeling the movement, as it were, lifted
his head from the earth, of which it was so soon to become a part;
but if he saw the knife, he saw it too late. The blade, driven down
with all the strength of a desperate man, struck home; when it was
drawn from its sheath of flesh, there remained to us but a foe
apiece.
In the instant of its descent I had thrown myself upon the Indian
nearest me. It was not a time for overniceness. If I could have done
so, I would have struck him in the back while he thought no harm;
as it was, some subtle instinct warning him, he whirled himself
over in time to strike up my hand and to clench with me. He was
very strong, and his naked body, wet with rain, slipped like a snake
from my hold. Over and over we rolled on the rain-soaked moss
and rotted leaves and cold black earth, the hail blinding us, and the
wind shrieking like a thousand watching demons. He strove to
reach the knife within his belt; I, to prevent him, and to strike deep
with the knife I yet held.
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