“And the Hawk’s nose is at the Injun’s knee!” shouted Eph Taylor, arms still waving madly.
Lower and still lower bent Long Panther, whiter and whiter gleamed his teeth; faster and still faster flew the thundering hoofs of the wicked looking steed. But nothing on four feet could have outstepped the rush of the flame-eyed Hawk; no one who ever sat in a saddle could have outdone in determination the boy who bestrode him. In a half dozen mighty bounds the Hawk was nose and nose with the horse of the Indian; and then he was ahead, daylight showing between them true and fair; when he flashed by the finish he was a winner by a good half dozen yards.
White boy and red slipped from their horses almost side by side as the roar of applause went up from the crowd. Leaning against the heaving side of his mount, the Long Panther stood for a moment staring into the face of Oliver Barclay. Then, without a word, he turned, leaving his horse standing in the trail and strode toward the lodges among the trees.
Amid the tumult of shouting the stout master of ceremonies was not idle. The next event was the shooting at all distances—and with all weapons; and the targets and marks were set up with all possible speed.
“Yes, friends,” cried the stout man at the top of his voice, addressing a throng gathered about Oliver and the Hawk, “I know how you feel, for I feel just that way myself. It’s a good boy and a good colt. But let’s get ahead with things. Now we have the shooting on our hands—shooting with rifles or with bows and arrows, the white man and his red brother to have the use of his favorite weapon. If a white wants to use a bow, let him do so and the fates prosper him; if a red prefers a rifle, let him take it by all means and use it to the best of his courage and eyesight.”
As the riflemen came forward, each with his long weapon in his grip, the throng followed and formed a sort of half circle behind them. Several of the Indians also advanced, their long bows tautly strung, their quivers full of arrows.
One by one the rifles cracked, and the bowstrings sang; mark after mark was shot away, and marksman after marksman fell back defeated. Eph Taylor advanced time after time, Jerusha in his hand; fondly he’d cuddle the smooth stock against his cheek, and when the old weapon’s sharp voice rang out, it was to announce the planting of a bullet in the heart of the target.
After three-quarters of an hour the last Shawnee was eliminated; and the struggle seemed between Eph Taylor and a gray-haired, keen-eyed hunter from the region toward the ridge. It was nip and tuck between this pair; neither seemed able to perform a feat which the other could not duplicate. The ringing of the shots, the spatting of the ball, the fall of wand or coin, or the snuffing out of candles went on with monotonous regularity; but at length this was broken by the appearance of the magician, Gray Lizard. With his amulets of skulls and claws, and pouches filled with potent charms hanging from him, his staff in his hand and his ratty old eyes filled with contempt, he advanced to the place where the riflemen were standing.
“What child’s work!” cried he. “What pastime for the papooses of the village! Again and again do you repeat what you have done before. And nothing comes of it. The Shawnee is about to go! but before he goes he would like to show his white brother what he thinks is a real test of skill.” Then to the master of ceremonies, “Is it the white man’s will?”
The stout official scratched his head.