The Indian laughed in his guttural way; but though he held the gun poised, he did not shoot. He was playing with his victim as a cat plays with a mouse before she kills it.
“Is white man afraid?” said the Indian, not tauntingly, but with real curiosity, for among Indians it is considered a great triumph if a warrior can inspire fear in his foe, and make him show the white feather.
“Afraid!” retorted the hunter. “Who should I be afraid of?”
“Of Indian.”
“Don't flatter yourself, you pesky savage,” returned the white man, coolly, ejecting a flood of tobacco juice from his mouth, for though he was a brave man, he had some drawbacks. “You needn't think I am afraid of you.”
“Indian shoot!” suggested his enemy, watching the effect of this announcement.
“Well, shoot, then, and be done with it.”
“White man no want to live?”
“Of course I want to live. Never saw a healthy white man that didn't. If I was goin' to die at all, I wouldn't like to die by the hands of a red rascal like you.”
“Indian great warrior,” said the dusky denizen of the woods, straightening up, and speaking complacently.