“It’s lucky you did,” spoke Eph. “And I reckon the things you do’ll make the redskins open their eyes. As for me,” and he fondled the long rifle lovingly, “I got old Jerusha here; and when she begins to talk I allow there won’t be many Shawnees that’ll use better language.”
Oliver smiled and nodded. To strangers there would have been a boastful note in the words of young Taylor; but not to those who knew him. The boy was a wonderful shot at all distances, but it never occurred to him to take any personal credit for this. Oddly enough he gave it all to his rifle.
“Nobody with half an eye could miss with her,” he’d frequently declare. “She’s the greatest old shooting iron ever made.”
Oliver sat smiling and nodding at Eph’s faith in his piece, and while he did so his eyes went to the spot where the long-legged young horse was tied. Sandy noticed the look and his glance also went in the same direction.
“The Hawk will do his share,” said he with an air of expert judgment. “He has speed and bottom and in a long race he’ll break the hearts of those Indian nags.”
“Just like his master’ll break the hearts of the Shawnees that’ll run against him,” spoke Eph Taylor, with confidence.
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Oliver; and as he spoke a sound from across the fields toward the line of forest took their attention. The sinking sun glanced from the lithe bronze body of a young Indian who was running swiftly and low, like a hound. “There’s the fellow I’m to fight it out against,” added the white boy. “And any one who comes in ahead of him will have speed, indeed.”
Eph Taylor nodded.
“He’s good,” admitted he. “But I count on him, Injun like, only to use his legs in the race. To beat him, all you’ve got to do is to use your head as well.”