The girl comes up. The Indian hands her the gourd, muttering some words in an unknown tongue—unknown, at least, to me. She takes it without making any reply, and walks off towards the spot where Rube had stood, which has been pointed out to her by her companion.
She reaches the tree, and halts in front of it, facing round as the trapper had done.
There was something so dramatic, so theatrical, in the whole proceeding, that up to the present time we had all stood waiting for the dénouement in silence. Now we knew what it was to be, and the men began to talk.
“He’s a-goin’ to shoot the gourd from the hand of the gal,” suggested a hunter.
“No great shot, after all,” added another; and indeed this was the silent opinion of most on the ground.
“Wagh! it don’t beat Garey if he diz hit it,” exclaimed a third.
What was our amazement at seeing the girl fling off her plumed bonnet, place the gourd upon her head, fold her arms over her bosom, and standing fronting us as calm and immobile as if she had been carved upon the tree!
There was a murmur in the crowd. The Indian was raising his rifle to take aim, when a man rushed forward to prevent him. It was Garey!
“No, yer don’t! No!” cried he, clutching the levelled rifle; “she’s deceived me, that’s plain, but I won’t see the gal that once loved me, or said she did, in the trap that a-way. No! Bill Garey ain’t a-goin’ to stand by and see it.”
“What is this?” shouted the Indian, in a voice of thunder. “Who dares to interrupt me?”