Incensed by the man’s laughter, and drawing courage from his outraged feelings, Sahanderry approached his adversary with menacing gestures.
Broom halted, turned, and awaited his attack with a provoking smile.
Suddenly springing forward, the Indian seized him by the hair of his head with both hands, then paused to allow him to get a grip on his locks in turn—this being the tribal idea of the proper opening of affairs of honor, in which each man, having gotten a firm hold, tries to twist the neck of his antagonist by screwing his head into a position not in accordance with nature’s planning. But Broom, after permitting his opponent to take up the proper attitude, suddenly discarded all further recognized rules of Chipewyan combat and struck the vastly astonished Sahanderry such a violent blow on the chest that had not the Indian’s fingers been entangled in his adversary’s hair, it would have felled him to the ground. As it was he was able to regain his equilibrium in part before relaxing his hold, and staggering against the table, he stood for a moment panting and muttering curses upon the head of the sailor, then slowly, craftily, he shifted his position.
For, in coming in contact with the table, he had instinctively put out his hands to break the force of the collision and had touched an object that stood thereon, over which his fingers had instantly closed, and without pausing to consider what the missile might be or do, he, in great desperation and excitement, now hurled it with sudden strength, bred of his vindictive mood, at the head of the offending Broom.
The missile was the bottle stolen from the chest, and, hurled with all the force of Sahanderry’s arm, it struck Broom full on the cheek with a cruel thud, then fell to the ground and broke.
This unexpected attack found Broom quite unprepared. He staggered from the force of the blow, but suddenly straightening himself, laughed discordantly and pulled a revolver, which he cocked and levelled at the now shrinking Indian, who, at the sight of the weapon, dropped to the ground and vanished under the table, where he lay trembling and terror-stricken.
The Indian’s extreme fear filled Broom with fiendish glee. In sheer devilment he fired several times—apparently at haphazard, but with unerring aim, at various objects in the room. He was undoubtedly a dead shot, and, taking advantage of his skill, he tortured the poor distracted wretch until he moaned again. Fingering the revolver in an apparently careless fashion, he touched the trigger and the bullet passed in close proximity to Sahanderry’s body. Then throwing up the weapon to feign sudden alarm it went off as if by accident, the bullet grazing the Indian’s head. Then followed a display of fancy shooting, till, suddenly tiring of his amusement, Broom’s mood changed. His face became grim again and once more he levelled the revolver at the shrinking figure under the table. The Indian fairly shook with terror, and the sweat gathered upon his brow.
Sahanderry felt that his end had come. Broom’s ghastly face and glistening eyes seemed proof that he was no longer accountable for his reckless acts.
“You can say your prayers, you hypocritical imp of Satan, for I’m going to kill you,” hissed the madman. “In five minutes more you’ll be a dead man.”
And a dead man Sahanderry certainly would have been if Broom had been less elaborate in his system of torture. But during his shooting display Roy Thursby had arrived at the Fort, and hearing the report of the last shot had cautiously opened the door, crept noiselessly across the dark kitchen, and reached the room in time to hear Broom’s murderous threat. As his eyes took in the scene presented he started and raised his clenched hand.