“It’s against all the rules that I ever heard tell of,” he announced. “But I’m for letting them do it. What do you say, lads?”
A shout of assent went up from the settlers; for all were eager to see what the redskin marksman would do.
The Gray Lizard turned and held up one hand toward the little knot of savages who stood in a gloomy array at one side.
“Long Panther, by jickety!” said Eph, who had been looking toward the Indians, curiously.
“I thought he was so tarnal mad at being licked in the hoss race that he didn’t mean to shoot at all,” said the old hunter who had been pressing Eph close. “But here he comes, as proud as a she wolf with seven pups, and a-meaning to outshoot all creation if it can be done any way at all.”
Long Panther advanced with erect head and a face like bronze, so utterly devoid of expression was it; but his keen swift eyes were full of fire and insolent challenge. His manner was that of one who felt himself master of the situation.
“The Gray Lizard spoke well,” said he. “To shoot at sticks and lights is work for the papoose, and not for the warrior. I ask but one shot; and then let any of you do as well, and I am content to say the white man is better than the Shawnee.”
As he spoke his swift eyes went about among the trees; upon a huge dead limb of an oak, near to the trunk, sat a gray squirrel, his bushy tail held erect, his deft forepaws stroking his moustache.
“A live mark!” said Long Panther, as he fitted an arrow to his string. “I will take it through the skin at the back of its neck and pin it to the tree.”
Almost before he ceased to speak, the arrow flew upon its mission; and the next instant the squirrel, pinned exactly as the Shawnee marksman had said, was struggling for release.