More plainly still by the rude speech that followed:
“Hilloa! redskin!” he cried out, addressing himself to the young Indian, “you’re sure you had no hand in this business? eh, redskin?”
“Redskin!” exclaimed the half-blood in a tone of indignation, at the same time fronting proudly to his insulter—“Redskin you call me? My skin is of better colour than yours, you white-livered lout!”
Ringgold was rather of a sallow complexion. The blow hit home. Not quicker is the flash of powder than was its effect; but his astonishment at being thus accosted by an Indian, combined with his rage, hindered him for some moments from making reply.
Others were before him and cried out:
“O Lordy! such talk from an Injun!”
“Say that again!” cried Ringgold, as soon as he had recovered himself.
“Again if you wish—white-livered lout!” cried the half-blood, giving full emphasis to the phrase.
The words were scarcely out before Ringgold’s pistol cracked; but the bullet missed its aim; and next moment the two clinched, seizing each other by the throats.
Both came to the ground, but the half-blood had the advantage. He was uppermost, and no doubt would quickly have despatched his white antagonist—for the ready blade was gleaming in his grasp—but the knife was struck out of his hand; and a crowd of men rushing to the spot, pulled the combatants apart.