On the night following the fight with the Cave Dwellers, a feast was held in the village of the Navahos to celebrate the great victory they had gained.  
The Indian braves and their three paleface brethren gathered closely around the camp fire after the feasting was over. The warriors told stories and legends of their tribe and indulged in wrestling and other sports, in all of which they showed great skill.
 
Buffalo Bill and his friends noticed that in the wrestling a tall and truculent-looking warrior named Leaping Dog overcame the other braves with ease. He threw one of them after another with scarcely an effort, until at last he could find none willing to meet him.
 
Then he turned to the white men, insolent with his triumph, and cried:
 
“Will you wrestle with me, palefaces? I will wager my tomahawk that there is none of you who can throw me.”
 
“Remember that the white chiefs are guests in our lodges, Leaping Dog,” said Red Cloud, in a reproving voice. “It is not seemly to challenge them thus.”
 
“I mean them no harm,” declared the truculent brave. “All men say that Long Hair is a great warrior and a mighty champion among his own people. If that is so, he should not fear me.”
 
“Fear you!” yelled Nick Wharton angrily. “It ’u’d take a sight more than you, ye durned red devil, ter scare the bravest man thet ever straddled a hoss on the plains.”
 
 
In his indignation the old trapper spoke in English, which the Indian did not understand. But he knew from the tone that what was said was not particularly complimentary to himself, so he turned his piercing black eyes on Wharton with an angry glance.
 
“If Long Hair will not wrestle with me, perhaps the old chief who roars like a bull will do so,” he said sarcastically.
 
“Sure, thar’s nothin’ better I’d like than ter break yer neck, ye durned savage,” retorted old Nick.
 
“Let him alone, old pard,” Buffalo Bill said soothingly. “I’ll take him on, if one of us must. I guess your muscles aren’t quite as tough, or your limbs as supple as they used to be when you were a young man.”
 
“You be everlastingly gol-durned, Billy Cody!” exclaimed Nick, now thoroughly incensed. “I kalk’late I kin tackle a blamed Indian still, even if I hev come ter be an old man. You let him get at me—an’ don’t you or Bill Hickok butt in.”
 
“All right! Go as far as you like, but try not to quite kill him,” laughed Cody.
 
Nick Wharton advanced into the center of the ring of redskins, in which his adversary was already standing in an attitude of defiant challenge.
 
Old Nick was a husky fellow, despite his age, but he did not look the physical equal of the red man, who was a giant over six feet tall, with muscles that stood out like masses of whipcord all over his arms and legs.
 
“I guess I may be a gone coon,” said the old trapper, as he removed his hunting jacket and stared critically at his opponent. “I used ter be powerful strong on the wrassle onct, but I guess I’m weakening a bit now. In all my wrasslin’ days, I reckon I never hit up agin’ a tougher proposition than thet thar redskin.”
 
 
Old Nick advanced boldly to the encounter, but his anticipation was soon justified.
 
The redskin rushed suddenly forward and had him in a resistless grip almost before he understood what was happening. He tried to struggle, but, with a mighty heave, the Indian sent him squarely to the ground and rose from his prostrate body with a sarcastic laugh.
 
“Will either of the other palefaces wrestle with Leaping Dog now?” he asked.
 
Cody and Hickok both jumped up, ready to accept the challenge and avenge their friend, but Wharton had already risen from the ground, and he stepped in between them.
 
“Wait a minute, old pards!” he said. “This hyar is my funeral. I ain’t had my bellyful yet, not by a long shot! I want the best two out of three.”
 
When Leaping Dog understood this he said that he was perfectly willing. He would throw the white man again, as he had thrown him before.
 
“It is no use, my brother,” said Red Cloud, taking Nick Wharton aside for a moment. “In wrestling we are all as children in the hands of Leaping Dog. He is a champion against whom no man can stand. He has beaten the best wrestlers of all the tribes.”
 
Old Wharton said nothing, but a look of grim determination came into his face that meant volumes.
 
The other Indians seemed to be of the same opinion as their chief, for they shouted to the white man not to meet their champion again, saying that he might hurt him seriously.
 
“Gol-durn him, let him go as fur as he kin!” muttered Nick savagely, as he stepped forward and faced his late victor.
 
Leaping Dog did not seem to hold his opponent so[91] cheaply this time. He saw, by the glitter in the old trapper’s eyes, that he was indeed a man to be feared.
 
He held his body as tense and rigid as that of a panther, and his coal-black eyes did not waver for a second in their baleful glance into those of the white man.
 
Suddenly he leaped like a wild beast straight at the throat of his opponent, seeking to grapple him round the neck—a favorite hold among the less sportsman-like of Indian wrestlers.
 
But Nick had seen Indians wrestle too often to allow himself to be caught in that manner.
 
He showed an agility surprising in so old a man.
 
With a movement even quicker than that of the Indian, he side-stepped, and, before his foe could recover his balance, he had grasped him round the shoulders in a clever hold that left him little chance to break away.
 
After swaying to and fro for a few moments, he forced the redskin backward until his shoulders fairly touched the ground.
 
The Indians were dumb with intense surprise for a second or two, and then they hailed the victory with loud whoops of delight. Leaping Dog, being a surly fellow, was not popular in the tribe. As the wrestling champion he had always been overbearing in his manner, and they were therefore glad to see his pride meet with a fall.
 
“Quits!” cried Nick. “Now fur the rubber!”
 
Leaping Dog got to his feet, looking angry and crestfallen. There was an expression of fierce vindictiveness in his eyes as he faced Wharton for the final bout.
 
Before they could clinch, Red Cloud rushed in between them, put his hand down to the brave’s belt, and pulled out a knife, which he tossed to the ground at Buffalo Bill’s feet.
 
There was nothing wrong in the fellow having the knife. All the braves were wearing one, as they commonly did; but Red Cloud had caught that evil look in Leaping Dog’s eyes, and he thought that the man might be tempted to use his weapon, if he were worsted again.
 
Leaping Dog glared at his chief savagely, but said nothing.
 
A chorus of emphatic “Ughs!” of approval went up from the Indians around the circle. It was clear that they did not think their chief’s suspicions were altogether unjust.
 
As the two men met again the Indian was far more wary than on either of the other occasions. Nick Wharton, tired of his cautious feints, eventually had to rush in and grapple him.
 
He secured a good grip, but the redskin struggled stoutly, bringing all his tremendous strength to bear to overcome the old scout.
 
The men struggled backward and forward for more than two minutes, panting heavily. Now one, and now the other, would gain a slight advantage, only to lose it again in a moment.
 
Then Wharton thought of an old trick which he had often used in his youth. It was too old to be used with any good effect on an expert American wrestler, but it might be new to the redskin, whose style of wrestling was altogether different.
 
Putting forth all his strength, he started to push the Navaho backward, inch by inch, as if he meant to force him over to the ground, as he had done before.
 
Leaping Dog strained his muscles to resist this attempt, just as Wharton had expected he would do. The redskin was thus pushing forward with all his strength.
 
 
Suddenly the trapper stopped pushing and pulled him violently forward.
 
As the Navaho’s own strength was being exerted in the same direction, he could not save himself in time. He struggled for a second or two to keep his balance, but in vain.
 
Before the spectators could fully realize the cleverness of Wharton’s trick, Leaping Dog was lying face downward on the ground, as flat as the proverbial pancake.
 
He was badly shaken up, for the fall was a heavy one. For several moments he lay prostrate, and then Nick Wharton helped him to his feet and off............