From the hand of the nearest Indian he snatched a war club, not dissimilar to that which hung at White Calf's wrist, a stone-headed beetle, grooved and bound fast with rawhide to a long, slender, hard-wood handle, which in turn was sheathed in a heavy rawhide covering, shrunk into a steel-like re-enforcement.

Armed alike, naked alike, savage alike, and purely animal in the blind desire of battle, the two were at issue before a hand could stay them.

All chance of delay or separation was gone.
Both white and red men fell back and made arena for a unique and awful combat.
There was a moment of measuring, that grim advance balance struck when two strong men meet for a struggle which for either may end alone in death.

The Indian was magnificent in mien, superb in confidence.

Fear was not in him.