Tom slobbered like an animal regretting its inability to eat sufficiently.
"Ah'm aimin' to try," he said.
"There ain't enough," returned Bolling. "Waall, young feller"—this to me—"was you intendin' to amuse me some!"
"I'm intending to let a little clean air into your dirty skin," I answered.
He threw back his head as if much amused.
"Ho, ho, ho! Now ain't you got the smart way o' puttin' things! Young feller, I'll tell yer what: you're too good for the frontier. You——"
As quick as lightning, and without an indication in advance to warn me, he flung his tomahawk at my head. I saw it coming, and instinctively did the only thing possible to save myself—raised my own ax to guard. Bolling's hatchet struck mine and knocked it from my hand, leaving my arm sore and tingling.
"You wasn't expectin' that, was you?" he gibed. "Waall, young feller, there's a heap o' other things you ain't expectin', but they're a-goin' to happen. Yes, right now. You watch."
He poised himself on the balls of his feet, and pranced around me, his big, double-edged scalping-knife held ready in his right hand.
"I'm aimin' to carve you, my lad," he warned me. "You ain't got the chance a squirrel has ag'in an eagle. There ain't a knife-fighter in these parts can stand up to me. D'ye know what they call me?"