“Friends!” called the master of ceremonies, “the time is drawing on, and as there are three contests still to be decided, we’d best get at them. The race for horses is next; riders will line across the trail.”
At this summons, Oliver Barclay sprang from Hawk, his long-legged young horse, untied and mounted him; and as it happened as he rode to the end of the forming line, he found himself next the tall young Shawnee whom they had pointed out to Boone as being able to talk English.
“Umph!” said this personage, his swift eyes running over the points of the horse. “You ride?”
Oliver nodded. The young brave bestrode a bony, long barreled horse with small ears and a wicked head. Its bared teeth gleamed as it snapped viciously at the horses within reach.
“Maybe you run,” ventured the Shawnee. Again Oliver nodded; and a glint of satisfaction came into the keen black eyes of the brave.
“Heap good!” said he. “Long Panther will beat you in both.”
Oliver smiled.
“The Long Panther is a good rider,” said he. “We have seen him many times break the wild horse, and manage the swift one. And he can run. Only yesterday I saw him flying along the trail like a wolf in the track of an antelope. But,” and the boy shook his head, “to win to-day, even Long Panther must do his best.”
“White boy shoot?” asked Long Panther; but Oliver shook his head.
“Not enough to match myself against experts,” said he. “But there are a few who will handle the rifle to-day, Long Panther, whom it will not be easy to draw away from.”