His dark eyes glowed craftily, while his hand dropped, apparently in careless habit, to the haft of his tomahawk.
Joe swung his long arm; his big fist caught the Shawnee on the jaw, sending him to the ground.

Uttering a frightful yell, Silvertip drew his weapon and attempted to rise, but the moment's delay in seizing the hatchet, was fatal to his design.

Joe was upon him with tigerlike suddenness.

One kick sent the tomahawk spinning, another landed the Shawnee again on the ground.

Blind with rage, Silvertip leaped up, and without a weapon rushed at his antagonist; but the Indian was not a boxer, and he failed to get his hands on Joe.
Shifty and elusive, the lad dodged around the struggling savage.
One, two, three hard blows staggered Silvertip, and a fourth, delivered with the force of Joe's powerful arm, caught the Indian when he was off his balance, and felled him, battered and bloody, on the grass.