“All! all!”
“What do you say, Judge Randall! You’ve not spoken yet, and as you’re a judge we wait for your decision.”
“Oh, if there’s fun to be had, I’m with you. What do you propose doing with him?”
“Leave that to me,” says Brandon, turning to the quarter-bred, who at this moment has arrived opposite the camp fire. “Hilloa Choc! What’s the hurry? We’ve been having a trial of strength here—who can hang longest by one arm to this branch? Suppose you put in too, and see what you can do?”
“I don’t desire it; besides, I have no time to spare for sport.”
The young hunter, halted for only a moment, is about to move on. The companionship thus offered is evidently uncongenial. He suspects that some mischief is meant. He can read it in the eyes of all six; in their faces flushed with corn-whiskey. Their tone, too, is insulting.
“You’re afraid you’ll get beat,” sneeringly rejoins Brandon. “Though you have Indian blood in you, there ought to be enough white to keep you from showing coward.”
“A coward! I’ll thank you not to repeat that Mr Alfred Brandon.”
“Well, then, show yourself a man, and make the trial. I’ve heard that you boast of having strong arms. I’ll bet that I can hang longer to that branch than you—that any of us can.”
“What will you bet you can?” asks the young hunter, stirred, perhaps, by the hope of employing his strength to a profitable purpose.