“Are you sure you are ready?” said Mr Ross.
Shouting his defiance, the conjurer came out from the tent, and walking to a place where he knew the fine sand in the bullet of bear’s grease would not hurt him, he boldly stood up, and stretching out his hands defied the shooter to do his best.
“You are sure, are you, that bullets will not hurt you?” said Mr Ross.
Very haughty was the conjurer’s reply. Then said Mr Ross again; “If you are hurt, no one will be to blame.”
“No, indeed,” was the conjurer’s reply, “for I have given the challenge, and my familiar spirit has told me that the bullets cannot pierce me.”
“If you are struck, then you will give up your conjuring, and go and hunt for your own living, like other people?”
He hesitated for a moment, but the low, shrill whistle was once more heard, and so he fairly shouted out:
“If bullets can pierce me I will forever give up my conjuring, and destroy my magic drum and medicine bag.”
“All right,” said Mr Ross; then, turning to his servant, he said, “Now, Baptiste, fire!”
Taking deliberate aim, the man fired, and, as the report rang out, from one of the uplifted hands of the conjurer who was standing about fifty yards away—there fell a finger, as neatly cut off by the bullet as though a surgeon’s knife had done the work.