As Buffalo Bill and Nick Wharton approached the first of the camp fires, they saw that the Indians were dancing the Sioux ghost dance around it, while at the next fire several of the Cheyennes were indulging in their own tribal war dance.  
Several sentinels had been placed around the camp, but, by careful scouting and judiciously taking advantage of cover, the two comrades managed to dodge them and get inside the cordon.
 
When they had accomplished this feat, Buffalo Bill uttered a sigh of relief. They were now fairly safe, unless they were observed by some of the braves around the fire. In that event, the sentries were likely to cut off their retreat, unless it were made too rapidly to give them time to take up the alarm.
 
Nothing was going on around the first two fires except the dancing, which both Buffalo Bill and Wharton had seen many a time before.
 
Taking shelter behind a clump of bushes, they crawled forward until they were right in the center of the camp, and opposite the largest of the bivouac fires.
 
Here they saw that most of the leading chiefs of the three tribes were gathered, and they rightly concluded that a war council was being held.
 
Four braves were posted near the camp fire, evidently for the purpose of keeping the other Indians from intruding while the chiefs and the old men discussed their plan of campaign.
 
Among the men seated around the fire the two scouts saw the renegade Kennelly.
 
 
He was smoking a big pipe, which looked incongruous in the midst of such wild and weird surroundings. His face was stained with blood from a wound in the forehead where a bullet had grazed him, and this intensified his ordinary ferocious look.
 
Nick Wharton drew his revolver—the rifles had been left behind with Wild Bill—and in another moment would have sent a bullet through the head of the renegade, but Buffalo Bill seized his arm and signed to him to control himself.
 
They crept nearer and nearer to the camp fire, until they were within about fifteen paces of it, lying hidden in a small clump of low brushwood.
 
They could get no nearer, for the light of the fire brightly illuminated the surroundings, and there was no other cover.
 
The Indians were talking angrily in the Sioux tongue, and the scouts, who were both familiar with it, were pleased to find that they were loudly abusing Kennelly for the failure of the attack on Fort Larned.
 
One after another denounced him as a bad leader, who had betrayed them into believing that they had hardly any opposition to meet, and had then taken them up against an almost impregnable position.
 
At last, after a young war chief had denounced him as a lying traitor, Kennelly took the pipe from between his lips and broke silence for the first time.
 
“Listen, my brothers, and pay heed to my words, for I do not speak with a false tongue,” he said. “I told you that it would not be easy to take the fort, and that you must be willing to lose many braves in the attempt.
 
“I told you that Long Hair, the slayer of many buffaloes, was there, and you know well that he is worth a hundred men in himself. Yet you persisted in making[35] the attempt, and you have no right to blame me for the failure.
 
“Did I hang back in the charge? Did I not lead your young men up to the walls of the fort? If they had followed me, we would have got inside and taken the scalps of all the men there.
 
“It was not my fault that they reeled back and would not follow me when the big firing began. How was I to know that your warriors are nothing but women and babes?”
 
At this gross insult half a dozen of the chiefs sprang to their feet and menaced the renegade with the tomahawks which they drew from their belts.
 
But the Irishman, in spite of his villainy, was a brave man. He merely gazed at them contemptuously, without deigning to draw his gun, and went on:
 
“You think that you have a quarrel with me. Very well. Name your champion, and I will meet him in single combat before you all.
 
“If he overcomes me, he may take my scalp; but if I slay him there must be no more disputing of my orders. My brothers, the Sioux, chose me for their war chief in this fight, and I will be obeyed.”
 
The young chief who had denounced Kennelly most hotly eagerly accepted this challenge, and begged his red comrades to let him act as their champion.
 
After a few minutes’ consultation among themselves, they agreed. Kennelly watched them from the corner of his squint eye, but pretended to be utterly uninterested in the matter which spelled life or death to him.
 
The young chief threw off his buffalo robe and stepped out into an open space near the fire, naked to the waist, but gorgeously painted with the war colors of his tribe. He was a Cheyenne.
 
As he stood in the firelight, straight as a young sapling,[36] with his right hand resting upon the tomahawk in his belt, he looked a formidable foe.
 
Kennelly glanced at him for a few moments through half-closed eyelids, and then yawned sleepily and knocked the ashes out of the bowl of his pipe.
 
The Indians, on the one side, and the two scouts, hidden behind the bushes on the other, watched the scene with interest.
 
The young chief stamped his foot impatiently, and Kennelly slowly raised his huge, bulky form from the ground.
 
Once he was upon his feet, however, a wonderful change came over him.
 
Seated upon the ground, he had seemed as lazy and inert as a hog, but now his body was as tense and active as that of a panther.
 
Stealthily he crept toward the Indian, and they looked into one another’s eyes as intently as if they were both hypnotized.
 
An old Crow chieftain gave the signal for the duel to commence by dropping his tomahawk to the ground.
 
Instantly the young Cheyenne rushed forward, whirled his tomahawk around his head, and flung it straight at the skull of his enemy.
 
But he had reckoned without his adversary’s lightninglike quickness of eye.
 
Kennelly ducked just in time to escape the deadly missile, which tore off part of one of the feathers in his headdress.
 
Straightening himself immediately, he flung his own tomahawk at the Cheyenne, burying it deep in his skull.
 
The man staggered, yelling his death whoop; but before he could fall to the ground Kennelly leaped upon him, caught him in his arms as if he was a baby, and tossed him high into the air over his own head.
 
He fell to the ground, and when the other Indians[37] rushed up to examine him they found that not only was his skull cleft, but that his neck had been broken by the terrible fall.
 
Bad Eye calmly drew his knife and took the dead man’s scalp, although he knew that that act would doubly enrage the already furious Cheyennes.
 
Then, holding the bloodstained knife above his head, and dangling the scalp in the other hand, he cried:
 
“I have overcome your champion, oh, chiefs! Who will be next to yield up his scalp to Bad Eye?”
 
There was no response to this challenge. The Indians were brave men, and the Cheyennes, at least, were much irritated at the death of their champion; but not one among them cared to try conclusions with such a redoubtable fighter as Kennelly had shown himself to be.
 
Suddenly Buffalo Bill rose from a clump of bushes in which he had lain concealed, and stalked, a majestic figure, into the circle of light cast by the glow of the fire.
 
To say that the Indians were surprised by this sudden apparition is but faintly to convey their absolute amazement. They looked as if a ghost had suddenly emerged into their midst.
 
The renegade Kennelly was not less astonished. He stared at the border king for a moment, and then sat down heavily upon the ground, picked up his discarded pipe, and began to fill it with tobacco.
 
Buffalo Bill surveyed the scene for a moment with quiet amusement, and then said, in the Sioux tongue:
 
“Greeting to you, chiefs and elders of the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Crow tribes! I have heard the challenge thrown down by Bad Eye, and I come into your midst to accept it.
 
“You know me for your enemy. I am Long Hair, and I have slain many of your braves. But I come fearlessly among you for the ordeal by single combat, for I know your code of honor must give me a fair start on my horse after the fight is over, supposing that I come out of it victorious. Is it not so, oh, chiefs?”
 
Cody’s action might have seemed to the outsider to be nothing else but suicide. To a man acquainted with the Indian laws of chivalry, however, there was nothing so very extraordinary about it.
 
One of their most stringent rules was that an enemy who challenged one of their braves to the ordeal by single combat must be held sacred, like an envoy under the white man’s flag of truce; and after the fight was over he must be allowed a good chance of retreat.
 
The oldest chieftain by the camp fire, after looking round the circle and catching the eyes of his comrades, acted as spokesman. He bent his head gravely, and said:
 
“It is as you say, Long Hair. You are a great warrior, and your fame has been sung by our young men round the camp fires. You shall fight Bad Eye if you desire to do so, and at the end, if you live, you shall go forth unharmed and bestride your horse, and ride away from us. None of our braves shall seek your scalp until you are half a mile distant.”
 
Buffalo Bill saluted the chief gravely, after the Sioux fashion, and then turned to Kennelly, who sat smoking and glowering at him, and asked:
 
“What weapons?”
 
“Tomahawks,” growled the renegade, as he rose to his feet and fronted the border king.
 
Nick Wharton had followed Buffalo Bill, after a moment’s pause, due to his absolute amazement at the bold course Cody had taken. His appearance did not alarm or surprise the Indians. Too many startling events had happened that evening for one more to have any effect on them.
 
“Durn my cats, Buffler!” said old Nick, after he had glanced defiantly round the circle of Indians. “You are the queerest duck I ever struck in my galumpin’ existence. What in thunder d’ye want to butt into this yere controversy for? Let me tackle thet thar Irish mountain o’ flesh! I guess I kin manage to settle his hash for him.”
 
The border king waved his friend aside, and whispered:
 
“Be on the watch, Nick, in case any of the Indians tries to get me in the back while I am fighting him.”
 
Wharton nodded, and promptly rested his hand upon his six-shooter in his belt, ready to whip it out and fire at a moment’s notice.
 
The Indians formed a ring, which was speedily added to by hundreds of other braves who flocked to the scene from the camp fires near by.
 
Buffalo Bill and the renegade stood in the center.
 
Kennelly held his tomahawk, red with the blood of the slain Cheyenne, in his hand.
 
Buffalo Bill did not possess such a weapon, but a Cheyenne brave stepped out of the circle of onlookers and handed one to him.
 
It was a weird and impressive scene.
 
The firelight cast a fitful glow on the faces of the duelists, and illumined their eyes as they circled around for a few moments, waiting the opportunity to send their sharp-edged weapons whizzing to the mark.
 
Suddenly Kennelly stepped forward with a rapid motion and flung his tomahawk at the border king’s head.
 
Buffalo Bill had held his eyes, just as the pugilist does those of his opponent, and instinctively he knew what was coming a second before Kennelly raised his hand.
 
He flung himself forward, and the tomahawk passed harmlessly a foot above his head.
 
“Wah!” cried the Indians, in admiration of the border king’s clever movement.
 
Before the exclamation had died upon their lips, Buffalo Bill had darted forward and struck Kennelly a terrible blow on the crown, which cleft his head asunder almost to the chin.
 
Bad Eye would trouble the peace of the border no more. The renegade had met with his deserts at last.