A huge gum tree reared its mighty head upon the river bank; upon a limb part way up lay a red squirrel, blinking at the assemblage with his shrewd little eyes. The heavy rifle began to lift toward this mark.
“Long Panther,” said Boone, quietly, his eyes never leaving the tiny ball of red fur so high in the air, “if I bring down the little beast, dead, and with never a mark of the bullet on him, will you admit it as good a shot as your own?”
“I will!” cried the Shawnee, promptly.
The long rifle cracked, a shower of particles of bark flew up from the limb directly under the squirrel; the concussion threw the little animal whirling into the air; it fell to the ground at the foot of the gum tree—dead.[2]
In an instant it was in the hands of Long Panther; his swift eyes searched it for the sign that would give him victory.
“Well?” asked Boone, after a moment.
The young warrior lifted his face.
“It is without a mark,” said he. Then as he turned away, he added in a voice of wonder, “The white man is indeed a mighty hunter.”
And when the foot-racers took their places a few moments later to decide the question of speed and endurance, Oliver Barclay was one of them. But there were no Indians among them. Curiously, the boy cast his eyes about, the words of the Gray Lizard occurring to him. Sure enough, there were the redskins mounted, their camp equipment upon the backs of the packhorses. With no thought of triumphing over a beaten foe, but filled with disappointment at not having the chance to try himself against the famed runner, Oliver stepped aside to Long Panther’s horse.
“What! are you going before the race is run?” asked he, astonished.