Arrived at striking distance, the Indian
leaped at Cameron, with his knife, as was his wont, ready to strike.
The appearance of the Indian springing at him seemed to set some of the
grey matter in Cameron's brain moving along old tracks. Like a flash he
dropped to his knees in an old football tackle, caught the Indian by
the legs and tossed him high over his shoulders, then, springing to
his feet, he jerked the rifle free from the pack and stood waiting for
Little Thunder's attack.
But the Indian lay without sound or motion. Cameron used his opportunity
to look for his cartridge belt, which, after a few minutes' anxious
search, he discovered in the pack. He buckled the belt about him, made
sure his Winchester held a shell, and stood waiting.
That he should be waiting thus with the deliberate purpose of shooting
down a fellow human being filled him with a sense of unreality. But
the events of the last forty-eight hours had created an entirely new
environment, and with extraordinary facility his mind had adjusted
itself to this environment, and though two days before he would have
shrunk in horror from the possibility of taking a human life, he knew
as he stood there that at the first sign of attack he should shoot the
Indian down like a wild beast.
Slowly Little Thunder raised himself to a sitting posture and looked
about in dazed surprise.
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