None disputed his position as referee.
The contest would be quite the most solemn and momentous, as well as the most sporting event that had occurred within the memories of the tribe. Honk-Ah, who had been runner-up for the war-chieftainship for two years past, as the old chief had said, had come on in his spear-throwing during the winter, and was believed to have overcast his cousin's best records. If he should succeed to-day it was possible that he would kill two birds with one stone, make a sudden snatch at the head-chieftaincy of the tribe, and that his backing of young braves might support him.
If this occurred, if it came to blows, how would the matter go? The old chief asked himself the question, but got no answer. Of one thing only he was assured, winning or losing he would die a chief.
The mark was a badger-skin kaross fixed upon a wicker fish-trap and set upon a stake as high as a man. The distance was extreme, as Pŭl-Yūn saw at a glance. Forty-five strides is a big, a very big throw with an assegai, if the mark is to be hit and penetrated. As a mere cast, an exhibition of distance-throwing, a man might do more. But this was no fancy-work; by the terms of the wager the mark was to be not merely hit but pierced. A badger's pelt is long in the hair, the skin is of the thickest and toughest of forest trophies. Pŭl-Yūn nodded.
"My cousin has set himself a difficult mark, it is small and it is not easy to pierce. My cousin has plainly improved in his spear-practice since I have been away. Let him begin the play."
The man addressed, Honk-Ah, a lithe, tall brave, naked except for his breech-clout, arose from his heels carrying three spears.
"Shall it be a matter of three spears at this range?" he asked.
"Three will be sufficient," replied Pŭl-Yūn, "and he whose points go farthest through the peltry shall be adjudged winner."
"I am judge," grunted the old chief.
"Without doubt, my father!" assented Pŭl-Yūn. Honk-Ah said nothing, he was balancing a spear as he walked to the throwing crease.