flush out the
Indian in no time. This way, he was going to get himself killed. If the
Indian had a rifle, Raoul was dead for sure. He felt an urge to back out
and call the others to help him. He stood there a moment, legs
trembling.

No. He had to kill his Indian by himself. He had to show Eli and the
rest.

He forced his feet to slide forward as silently as he could manage. His
hesitation had given his eyes a chance to get used to the dark. He tried
to remember the layout of the mine. In the dim light from the entrance
he made out the downward slope of the long tunnel. About twenty feet in,
another tunnel branched off to his left. His eyes ached as they tried to
find the enemy hiding somewhere ahead of him.

He could see nothing but black walls lined with logs to brace the
ceiling, a floor littered with chunks of rock. As he moved forward, the
tunnel got narrower, the ceiling lower. He could almost feel the weight
of the rock and earth above him; these logs could suddenly give way and
the prairie come down on him like a boot on a bug. He began to be more
afraid of the mine than he was of the hidden Indian.

He came to the branch tunnel and peered into it.

With a high-pitched shriek the Indian sprang at him.

Raoul glimpsed a steel tomahawk edge coming at his head. He jerked the
pistol's trigger and jabbed with the knife in his left hand to parry the
axe blade.

The blast of the pistol deafened Raoul, and in the momentary blaze of
light he saw the face of a young Indian, distorted with anger and fear.

It was a face he hated on sight--dark skin, narrow black eyes, flat but
for a beak of a nose, shaven skull. A face like those in his nightmares.
It stayed vivid in his mind's eye when the flash of light was gone.

The Indian's war whoop ended in a cry of pain.

_Got the sonofabitch!_ Raoul exulted. He'd been holding his pistol low,
must have hit the Indian in the gut.

The flash had temporarily blinded him, but reflexes honed in dozens of
riverfront brawls took over. He jammed his pistol into its holster and
switched the knife to his right hand. Every fiber of him hungered to
kill. He lunged forward, knife straight out in front of him. He could
feel his lips stretching in a grin.

The knife hit something solid, yet yielding. With a yell of triumph he
drove the point in, was rewarded with a scream of agony. He was
beginning to see again. The shadow facing him lifted the tomahawk. Raoul
jerked the knife fre