Yermah flung down his bow and stepped aside to make room for his competitors. He stood helmet in hand, wiping his brow, pleased with the warming sentiment manifested toward him.
“Hanabusa, the Azes, scores three, five and seven. Fifteen for final count.”
“Ben Hu Barabe can do better,” was said on all sides, as Hanabusa made way for him.
“Now the Azes will learn how to shoot!”
“He will never equal the first score,” said other archers. “The Atlantian is a fine bowman.”
Ben Hu Barabe bent to his task. He sent his first arrow with a vim and energy which bespoke long familiarity and constant practice. He, too, made a center shot, but it was the upper edge of the gold disk which received the barb; next time, the red ring suffered; but the final shot sped feebly, and barely indented the black ring.
“The first fort yields to the Azes,” announced the judges. “Move on to the next coign of vantage.”
Now came the real test of skill. Here every man was interested, because they all made use of the bow and arrow themselves. The first trial was of strength, but this would require finesse and nicety of calculation. Hundreds of the spectators left their seats and crowded around the contestants.
Extremely light, highly elastic but tough yew from the forests of Oregon was substituted for the heavier bow of the chase; and the arrows had finely pointed obsidian heads, notched and smooth, but sharp as a needle.
Yermah looked well to the sweetness of his clear, clean, lemon-colored bow. When satisfied that it had the requisite softness of flexure and recoil, and that the arrows were properly seasoned, he placed one on the left side of the bow, above, and resting on the forefinger knuckle of the clenched left hand, with its notch set on the string.