“Look here, Jim!” said Mark suddenly. “Go and tell those fellows that if they know when they are well off they won’t come over that fence.”
“Oh, no! You run!” entreated Jim, who seemed to be greatly distressed on Mark’s account. “Indian kill, sure!”
“I shan’t budge an inch. Now, that’s flat. Jim, I shan’t tell you more than a dozen times that if you don’t want to wrestle you had better keep your hands away from me. Go and tell those painted gentlemen that I say they have come close enough.”
The young wrestler, seeing that Mark was firmly resolved to stand his ground, darted off like a flask, and, perching himself upon the fence, began a speech. He threw his arms wildly about his head, twisted himself into all sorts of shapes, and shouted at the top of his voice.
Mark could not understand a word he said, but the Indians could, and they seemed very much interested. They listened respectfully, no doubt, because the speaker was the son of their chief, only interrupting him now and then with a long-drawn “O-o m-i!” which was probably intended for applause.
If Jim was trying to induce the warriors to return peaceably to camp, he did not succeed in his object. The leader looked toward Mark, who stood in the door of the shop, keeping his eye on the savages, and stooping down occasionally to caress his hounds, and becoming enraged at his coolness, again raised the war-whoop, whereupon Jim brought his speech to a sudden close, and, jumping down from the fence, hurried up to Mark, and begged him to run for his life.
“I shan’t stir a peg,” was the angry response. “Go back and say to those men that I am tired of waiting. Tell them that if they come inside this lot I’ll make my hounds eat them up.”
Jim ran back to the fence, and for the second time occupied the attention of the warriors with a speech. They listened attentively for awhile, as before, but his eloquence seemed to make but very little impression upon them, for the leader again raised the war-whoop, and placed his hands upon the fence, as if about to spring over.
“Come on!” shouted Mark, who was every moment growing more angry and impatient. “Come inside this lot if you dare! Hands off, Jim!” he added, pushing back the young Indian, who once more tried to pull him toward the house. “I am just in the right humor for a wrestle now, and when I get through with your friends there I will show you what a white boy can do. Jeemes’ River! why don’t you come on?”
But the Indians, if they had any intention of crossing the fence at all, were not ready to do it just then. They listened to another long speech from their leader, and then, to Mark’s great amazement, started back through the cotton-field toward the camp. When they disappeared in the woods, Mark drew a long breath of relief, and turned to Jim, who stood looking at him with every expression of wonder and curiosity. The young wrestler was hardly prepared to believe that any one, especially a boy sixteen years old, could see the famous Choctaw braves in war-paint without being very badly frightened.