But the sentiments of the horse-dealer’s son, less refined, are also less keenly felt. His remarks add fuel to the fire already kindled in the breast of Brandon.
“The nigger thinks entirely too much of himself. I propose, boys, we take the shine out of him,” said Brandon, who makes the malicious challenge.
“Do the nigger good,” chimes in Slaughter.
“But is he a nigger?” asks Spence, to whom the strange youth has been hitherto unknown. “I should have taken him for a white.”
“Three-quarters white—the rest Indian. His mother was a half-bred Choctaw. I’ve often seen the lot at our store.”
It is Grubbs who gives this information.
“Injun or nigger, what’s the difference?” proceeded the brutal Buck. “He’s got starch enough for either; and, as you say, Alf Brandon, let’s take it out of him. All agreed, boys?”
“All! all!”
“What do you say, Judge Randall! You’ve not spoken yet, and as you’re a judge we wait for your decision.”
“Oh, if there’s fun to be had, I’m with you. What do you propose doing with him?”
“Leave that to me,” says Brandon, turning to the quarter-bred, who at this moment has arrived opposite the camp fire. “Hilloa Choc! What’s the hurry? We’ve been having a trial of strength here—who can hang longest by one arm to this branch? Suppose you put in too, and see what you can do?”
“I don’t desire it; besides, I have no time to spare for sport.”
The young hunter, halted for only a moment, is about to move on. The companionship thus offered is evidently uncongenial. He suspects that some mischief is meant. He can read it in the eyes of all six; in their faces flushed with corn-whiskey. Their tone, too, is insulting.
“You’re afraid you’ll get beat,” sneeringly rejoins Brandon. “Though you have Indian blood in you, there ought to be enough white to keep you from showing coward.”
“A coward! I’ll thank you not to repeat that Mr Alfred Brandon.”
“Well, then, show yourself a man, and make the trial. I’ve heard that you boast of having strong arms. I’ll bet that I can hang longer to that branch than you—that any of us can.”
“What will you bet you can?” asks the young hunter, stirred, perhaps, by the hope of employing his strength to a profitable purpose.
“My rifle against yours. Looking at the value of the guns, that is quite two to one.”
“Three to one,” says the son of the store-keeper.
“I don’t admit it,” answers the hunter. “I prefer my piece to yours, with all its silvering upon it. But I accept your challenge, and will take the bet as you have proposed it.”
“Enough. Now, boys, stand by and see fair play. You, Slaughter, you keep time. Here’s my watch.”
The girl is going away; Brandon evidently wishes she should do so. He has some design—some malice prepense, of which he does not desire her to be a witness. Whatever it is he has communicated it to his fellows, all of whom show a like willingness for Lena Rook—such is her name—to take her departure. Their free glances and freer speech produce the desired effect. Her father’s shanty is not far off. She knows the road without any guidance, and moves off along it, not, however, without casting a glance towards her late travelling companion, in which might be detected a slight shadow of apprehension.
She has not failed to notice the bearing of the boy hunters, their insulting tone and attitude towards him of Indian taint, who, for all that, has been the companion of her girlhood’s life—the sharer of her father’s roof, rude and humble as it is. Most of those left in the glade she knows—all of them by name—Buck and Brandon with a slight feeling of aversion.
But she has confidence in Pierre—the only name by which she knows her father’s guest—the name given by the man who some six years before entrusted him to her father’s keeping; she knows that he is neither child nor simpleton, and against any ordinary danger can well guard himself.
By this sweet reflection allaying her fears she flits forward along the forest path like a young fawn, emboldened by the knowledge that the lair of the protecting stag is safe and near.
Story 1--Chapter III.
Hanging by One Hand.
“How is it to be?” asks Slaughter, holding the watch as if he were weighing it. “By one hand or both?”
“One hand, of course. That was the challenge.”
“I propose that the other be tied. That will be the best way, and fair for both parties. There will then be no balancing, and it will be a simple test of strength in the arm used for suspension. The right, of course. Let the left be tied down. What say you, boys?”
“There can be no objection to that. It’s equal for both,” remarks Randall.
“I make no objection,” says Brandon.
“Nor I,” assents the young hunter; “tie as you please, so long as you tie alike.”
“Good!” ejaculates Bill Buck, with a sly wink to his companions, unseen by the last speaker.
The competitors stand under the branch of the tree ready to be tied. A minute or two sufficed for this. It is done by a piece of string cord looped upon the left wrist, and then carried round the thigh. By this means the left arm is secured against struggling or in anyway lessening the strain upon the right.
Thus pinioned, both stand ready for the trial.
“Who goes first?” is the question asked by Slaughter. “The challenger, or the challenged?”
“The challenged has the choice,” answers Randall. “Do you wish it, Choc?” he adds, addressing himself to the quarter-bred Indian.
“It makes no difference to me whether first or last,” is the simple reply.
“All right, then; I’ll go first,” says Brandon, springing up, and clutching hold of the limb.
Slaughter, entrusted with the duty, appears to take note of the time.
One—two—three—three minutes and thirty seconds—told off on the dial of his watch, and Brandon drops to the ground.
He does not appear to have made much of an effort. It is strange he should be so indifferent to the losing of a splendid rifle, to say nothing of the humiliation of defeat.
Both seem in store for him, as the young hunter, bracing himself to the effort, springs up to the branch.
One—two—three—four—five. Five minutes are told off, and still does he remain suspended.
“How much longer can you stand it, Choc?” asks Bill Buck, with a significant intonation of voice. “Most done, ain’t ye?”
“Done!” scornfully exclaimed the suspended hunter. “I could stand it three times as long, if needed. I suppose you’re satisfied I’ve won?”
“A hundred dollars against my own rifle you don’t hang five minutes more.”
This comes from Brandon.
“I’ll take the bet,” is the rejoinder.
“Since you’re so confident, then, you’ll have to win or be hanged.”
“What do you