The only spectator was the horse, whose
bridle was hanging on the ground. But he seemed to take no interest
in the struggle, and continued nibbling the grass until it was over.
The black man, who had now dropped his rug, was as agile and nimble
as a beast of prey, and exerted all his skill and strength to free
his hand. But the white man felt that to loose his hold would be to
lose his life, and he held on to his grip of the blackfellow's wrist
with desperate resolution. The tomahawk fell to the ground, but just
then neither of the men could spare a hand to pick it up. At length,
by superior strength, the stockman brought his enemy to the ground.
He then grasped the thick, matted hair with one hand, and thus
holding the black's head close to the ground, he reached with the
other hand for the tomahawk, and with one fierce blow buried the
blade in the savage's brain. Even then he did not feel quite sure of
his safety. He had an idea that it was very difficult to kill
blackfellows outright, that theywere like American 'possums, and were
apt to come to life again after they had been killed, and ought to be
dead. So to finish his work well, he hacked at the neck with the
tomahawk until he had severed the head completely from the body; then
taking the head by the hair, he threw it as far as he could to the
other side of the track.
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