CHAPTER XLV. WAR TO THE KNIFE.

And, indeed, Boyd Bennett was almost at his last gasp when he dragged himself ashore and put the nearest clump of brush between him and the water, thus hiding his future movements from the sharp eyes of the Border King. There the man fell upon the meager sward that clothed this part of the island, and lay, gasping like a great fish just out of its element, almost helpless with exhaustion. The White Antelope, had she recovered consciousness and power of action during those first few minutes, might easily have escaped from her captor. But she had come nearer being drowned than was at all pleasant. She lay so still and white where Bennett had flung her upon the ground, that even he, hardened villain that he was, feared his usage of her delicate body had been too much for the spirit that inhabited it, and that the breath was already sped from the girl.

But not for some minutes did Bennett think thus. He could barely recover his own breath at first. He was chilled through and through by the icy water. His clothing clung to him like lead. He had lost most of his weapons during his struggle in the river; but his bowie and a pistol remained--the latter, of course, useless in its present condition. His ammunition was saturated, too. He had but his knife to depend on, was he attacked.

And at that thought the bandit chief started to life! Attacked, indeed! There was a relentless enemy on his trail. He, too, knew that it had come to the final trial of strength between he and the Border King. His death, or William F. Cody’s, must mark this island as a tragic spot forever.

The great scout, he knew, would never give up while life remained in his body. As for Bennett himself, he was pushed now to the last extremity. He was bereft of all his associates. He had seen them killed one by one, by fate, or by the relentless arm of Buffalo Bill. He had lost caste with the Sioux, over whom he had obtained so great an influence during the past few months. And all for what? For this White Antelope--a half-breed girl--a woman who hated him, and who considered herself, though of mixed blood, too good for him.

He gnashed his teeth in rage as he thought of this, and his rage somewhat aroused him. He crawled to the girl and shook her. Her body was limp--and oh, so cold! It well-nigh frightened Bennett to touch her. Could it be that she was already dead?

He tore open the doeskin blouse that draped the upper part of her person and bared her bosom. His hand sought her heart and felt a timid flutter there. She was still alive!

Yet, how to warm that spark of life into full flame? He had nothing in which to wrap her; his own clothing was saturated. But in his hunting-shirt he carried a carefully stoppered bottle, and in this receptacle were several sulfur matches. These were as precious as gold to him now. He crept about the little plateau of the island, gathering twigs and dry branches and rubbish. This light stuff he heaped in a pile, and then, before he dared light the pyre, he found and broke up larger wood and made ready a roaring heap which, a few moments after he touched his match to it, blazed several feet into the air.

The sun was going down, and this bonfire warded off the coming chill of night. He basked in the heat himself, feeling grateful for every leaping, scorching flame. He dragged the girl within the radiance of the fire and chafed her hands and her forehead, and removed her torn moccasins and held her small, beautifully formed feet to the fire. These ministrations he performed with some little tenderness; but, although the girl sighed and her lips parted, and her chilled body seemed to respond to the warmth of the fire, she did not open her eyes.

Suddenly Boyd Bennett started to his feet with an exclamation of rage. He had entirely forgotten something during these minutes. What was Buffalo Bill about?

He ran through the bushes and appeared upon the edge of the river looking toward the side where Cody had been. There was the big white horse, divested of saddle and bridle, cropping the grass on the bank. There, too, Bennett saw most of Cody’s clothes and accouterments--a neat pile of them. But where was the man himself?

The bandit was inspired instantly with fear that he had overlooked his enemy too long. Had he been given time to cross to the island?

And where else could Cody be? For what other reason would he have removed his clothing and arms?

“The devil is swimming the river!” muttered the bandit.

The sun was setting, and it was already growing dusky on this side of the island. Boyd Bennett cast his keen glance over the troubled surface of the water, seeking the bold swimmer. He was not aware that at the moment he parted the bushes to step out on the shore, Cody, in midstream, had seen him, and had sunk beneath the surface, leaving scarcely a ripple to show where he had gone down.

And once in the depths the scout had swum as strongly as he could for the island. The current swept him downward, and he was some yards below Boyd Bennett’s position when he finally had to come up for air. His head bobbed above the surface as sleek as a seal’s or an otter’s--and looking much like that of the latter animal. Only to get a breath did the scout remain at the surface, then he sank beneath again.

Although Bennett did not actually see his head, he caught the ripples on the surface as Cody went down. He saw that there was no eddy there, and he suspected instantly what had caused the disturbance on the water. With an oath he ran along the edge of the island until he came opposite the spot.

In a minute Cody came up again for air. With a yell Bennett sighted him. The scout was this time much nearer the shore--and he was much nearer his last gasp than before, too! Crossing the river he had found all the task promised from the other side. It was not only a long swim, but it was an arduous swim.

“I’ve got you now, Bill Cody!” roared the bandit, shaking his fists above his head in an abandonment of rage. “I’ve got you now!”

Had Buffalo Bill had breath to do so he might have told him that the river had a bigger mortgage on him. The current was pulling him down-stream with a power that taxed his utmost strength to counteract.

“You’re my meat!” bawled Bennett. “Let me get my hands on you, you hell-hound!”

Cody bore all this in silence. He was struggling to gain a foothold near the shore. Once his feet found bottom, but then the current tore him away and he had to fight to get back. Bennett ran along the shore and stood over him, his face aflame, his eyes blazing like coals, his lips fairly frothing.

Cody finally made the shallow again and stood upon his feet. That was a blessed relief! He was head and shoulders out of the water, and now he took the knife from between his teeth and held it clutched firmly in his right hand.

“I’ve got you!” bawled Bennett, fairly dancing up and down on the shore. “Come ashore and I’ll have your scalp! I’ll cut your heart out! I’ll slice you into cat’s meat! And if you don’t come ashore the river will get you. Ha! ha! ha! Bill Cody is between the devil and the deep sea this time!”

And the scout thought that this was a pretty true statement of the case. For, if ever there was a fiend incarnate, it was Bennett at this juncture. And the river was as wicked and dangerous as the sea could possibly be. The scout was indeed between two perils--and neither would give him a chance for his life.

The moment he waded within striking distance Bennett would attack him. And the river dragged at him continually.

But, at least, the scout could parley. He had breath enough to say:

“Boyd Bennett, you and I have many an old score to settle. Give me footing on that bank. You have your knife; I have mine. Let us try conclusions fairly.”

“What! Give you a chance to play some scurvy trick on me--when I’ve got you dead to rights?” cried Bennett, and laughed long and loudly.

Cody edged a step nearer to the shore.

“Be a man!” urged the scout. “You’re as good as I am.”

“I’m better--curse you!”

Cody gained another foot.

“Let us try conclusions, blade to blade. Give me a show, man!”

“It’s war to the knife, and the knife to the hilt between us--that’s true, Bill Cody!” gritted out the man. “But you shall not be given a chance. I’ll kill you in cold blood--or see you drown in this river. Mark ye that!”

Cody crept a few inches nearer.

“Come! You are rested. You’ve got your strength back. I’m chilled to the bone. But don’t kill me as you would a dog, Bennett!” urged the wily scout.

“A dog you are, and a dog’s death you shall die!”

Cody stooped a little now so as to appear still to be in deep water. But he had gained considerable. The fellow’s rage and excitement made him overlook this cunning.

“A chance; just a foothold on the bank--for God’s sake!” cried Cody.

“Not much; I won’t! You die where you are--or drown!”

Boyd Bennett stooped, and holding his own bowie with grim clutch, made a pass at the scout. The latter dodged--and made another foot.

“Give me a show!” cried the man in the water, apparently at his last gasp.

“No, no! I’ll have your life--and now!”

Again the bandit made a thrust. At the moment Cody flung his body forward, and his left hand clutched a tree-branch which overhung the river. At last he had a stable hold upon terra firma. With a shout he dragged himself in toward the bank, and, in turn, lunged at his antagonist. So unexpected was the blow that he came near catching Bennett in a vital spot. As it was, the point of the scout’s bowie slit his enemy’s sleeve from wrist to elbow and brought the blood beneath!

“You devil!” yelled Bennett, leaping back, smarting with pain.

It was just the chance Cody wished. He bounded out upon the rocky shore. His own war-cry resounded through the island. All his weakness dropped from him like a garment. At last he was before his foe, and they were evenly matched--man to man and blade to blade!

“Guard yourself, you scoundrel!” cried Buffalo Bill, the Border King. “It is war to the knife, and the knife to the hilt, as you yourself have said. Your life or mine--which is the better man! One of us, Boyd Bennett, shall never leave this spot alive!”