The grim face of White Calf relaxed for a moment into something like a half-smile of pride.
"Heap fight!" he repeated simply, his eyes fixed on the vast form of the babbling giant.

He dropped his blanket fully back from his body and stood with his eyes boring forward at his foe, his arms crossed arrogantly over his naked, ridging trunk, proud, confident, superb, a dull-hued statue whose outlines none who witnessed ever again forgot.
There was no time to parley or to decide.

Fate acted rapidly through the agency of a half-witted mind.

Juan the Mexican was regarding the Indian intently.

Perhaps he gathered but little of the real meaning of that which had transpired, but something in the act or look of the chieftain aroused and enraged him.