Now no good soldier man, be he regular or irregular, likes to make one of a firing party, told off to shoot a man in cold blood, law or no law, and it is usual in such cases to detail the worst characters in a regiment to perform that obnoxious duty; but when it comes to letting daylight into a fiend who brags of having tortured helpless women and children, then no frontiersman jibs at making one of a party to do so. Therefore, no matter how distasteful the job might be to any of the four men told off on this special occasion, they fell in with great alacrity and brought their carbines to the shoulder like one man.
“Hurry up, ye spalpeen, and make yer sowl,” quoth the Sergeant.
“You can’t shoot me,” replied the fanatic, “the great Gabriel and all his angels protect me; you can’t kill me.”
“Nabocklish” (maybe not), answered the imperturbable non-com., “but by the holy poker we’ll have a darned good try. Will yez call on the blessed saints or not, ye contumacious blaggard?”
“Hau Hau, Pai Marire,” shouted the fanatic, raising his arms, stretching them to the full extent and turning the hands, palms outwards, towards the firing party.
“Ah, thin ye won’t,” growled the now somewhat enraged non-com., “thin go to hell yer own way. Ready!”
“Hau Hau, Pai Marire,” yelled the fanatic.
“Present!” ordered the Sergeant.
“Hau Hau, Pai Marire,” triumphantly shrieked the Maori.
“Fire!”