Chatanskah somewhat dubiously translated this speech to Corlaer.
"The Bear is a strong warrior," he added. "He has counted more coups than any man of his tribe."
"Ja," said Corlaer, and putting down musket, tomahawk, powder-horn and shot-pouch, he pulled his leather shirt over his head.
Still Chatanskah hesitated. As it happened, the Dakota had never seen the big Dutchman at hand's-grips with an enemy, and whilst they had respect for his marksmanship and quiet sagacity they were inclined to make fun of him behind his back because of his excessive corpulence.
"Chatanskah need not be concerned," spoke up Tawannears, smiling. "Our brother Corlaer is the strongest warrior of his people. The Cheyenne will choose a new chief tomorrow—those who escape from the arrows of the Dakota. Tell Nakuiman to lay aside his weapons."
Chatanskah complied none too happily, and a young Cheyenne warrior advanced from the ranks of his band and relieved his chief of bow and arrows and tomahawk.
"Nakuiman waits," proclaimed the Cheyenne chief. "The Mazzonka is not in a hurry to die."
But Corlaer shambled forward as soon as his opponent had given up his weapons. The Dutchman's legs wobbled comically. His huge paunch waggled before him as he walked. Fat lay in rolls and ridges all over his hairy brown torso, and lapped in creases on his flanks. Only those who had seen him in action knew that beneath his layers of blubber were concealed muscles of unhuman strength, and that his placid exterior was a mask for a will that had never yielded to adversity.
The Cheyenne warriors greeted him with guttural laughter, and the Dakota pulled long faces. Nor could I blame them, after contrasting the outward appearance of the two champions. The Cheyenne was the biggest Indian I have ever seen, well over two yards in his moccasins, with the shoulders of an ox, clean-thewed, narrow-flanked, his legs like bronze pillars. He crouched as Corlaer approached and drew his knife, circling on the balls of his feet, the keen blade poised across his stomach in position to strike or ward, as need arose.
Corlaer, on the other hand, had not even drawn his knife, and his hands hung straight beside him. He slouched along with no attempt at a fighting posture, his whole body exposed to the Cheyenne's knife. The Cheyenne warriors passed from laughter to gibes and humorous remarks—which, of course, Corlaer could not understand—and Nakuiman evidently decided that they were right in their judgment, for he commenced a kind of dancing progress around Corlaer, never coming to close quarters, hut maintaining a constant menace with his knife.