“There’s only one of them who understands any English, beside old Gray Lizard,” said Oliver, “and that’s the tall fellow covered with the bearskin. We took the trouble to explain the matter to them; but they just shake their heads and candidly think the worst of us.”
“Injuns,” stated Boone, “can never be got to quite believe the white man. Maybe it’s because they’ve been beaten so often and in so many ways that they’ve come to think that he can’t have played fair with him.”
The wrestling was now going forward, and big Sam Dutton, he of the “stone throw,” was disposing of opponent after opponent with ease. There being little interest manifested in this because of its one-sidedness, the master of ceremonies, a stout, humorous-looking man, called out:
“I reckon we’ll now have the fancy riders out getting ready.” Then in a lower tone to those near him, “This is a thing the Injuns always win, and our boys ought to be ashamed of themselves for letting ’em. Trick riding ought to be as easy for a white as a redskin.”
This complaint was greeted by a laugh from those at whom it was aimed; and the laugh was still echoing when a young Shawnee ran out and across the green. To a tree some distance away he affixed a mark of painted bark, then he paced off a score of yards, turned, drew a tomahawk and waved it as though in challenge. Then the sinewy, bronzed arm went back and the hatchet whizzed through the air; true and fair it struck the mark, burying itself an inch or more in the tree.
A yell went up from the young braves at this; there were challenging glances thrown right and left; but as none of the whites appeared disposed to accept, a fresh mark was put up. Another Shawnee stepped forward and drew out a heavy-bladed knife. For an instant he balanced it in his hand, then launched it forward like a lightning flash, straight to the heart of the mark.
Another whoop arose, and again the triumphant challenging glances went around from the young savages.
“They reckon there ain’t none of you got it in you to do a thing like that,” stated the master of ceremonies.
“Just you wait till the shooting,” answered a voice, and a murmur went up from among the whites. “We’ll show ’em then.”
“Well, you ought to,” answered the stout man. “You’ve lived all your lives with rifles in your hands, and it’s not much to your credit that you can shoot. But,” and he waved one pudgy finger at them, “don’t be too sure of the shooting, even at that. Maybe you ain’t heard that Long Panther is here to-day! And anybody that’s acquainted with that young redskin knows a Shawnee with a good eye and a steady hand.”