“My rifle against yours. Looking at the value of the guns, that is quite two to one.”
“Three to one,” says the son of the store-keeper.
“I don’t admit it,” answers the hunter. “I prefer my piece to yours, with all its silvering upon it. But I accept your challenge, and will take the bet as you have proposed it.”
“Enough. Now, boys, stand by and see fair play. You, Slaughter, you keep time. Here’s my watch.”
The girl is going away; Brandon evidently wishes she should do so. He has some design—some malice prepense, of which he does not desire her to be a witness. Whatever it is he has communicated it to his fellows, all of whom show a like willingness for Lena Rook—such is her name—to take her departure. Their free glances and freer speech produce the desired effect. Her father’s shanty is not far off. She knows the road without any guidance, and moves off along it, not, however, without casting a glance towards her late travelling companion, in which might be detected a slight shadow of apprehension.
She has not failed to notice the bearing of the boy hunters, their insulting tone and attitude towards him of Indian taint, who, for all that, has been the companion of her girlhood’s life—the sharer of her father’s roof, rude and humble as it is. Most of those left in the glade she knows—all of them by name—Buck and Brandon with a slight feeling of aversion.
But she has confidence in Pierre—the only name by which she knows her father’s guest—the name given by the man who some six years before entrusted him to her father’s keeping; she knows that he is neither child nor simpleton, and against any ordinary danger can well guard himself.
By this sweet reflection allaying her fears she flits forward along the forest path like a young fawn, emboldened by the knowledge that the lair of the protecting stag is safe and near.