The Rescue of Broken Arrow

Now he remembered the words of the crafty white captain—your skill with weapons was patiently acquired not to defend yourself, but to hand down your fellow men like beasts.

He remembered the words—and struck! He felt the blade go home with wonderful ease and then stop with a shock against bone, and his fist went on, dislodged from the hilt and striking heavily into the throat…

Death rode the midnight plains with Cashel. Lurking, silent death at the hands of a prowling Pawnee—cruel, flaming death by the treacherous rifle of a white man. But Cashel did not shun the hostile plains, or the white men who hated him…or the Indians who feared him.