proves the
marksman's skill; first, if successful, by showing the strength and
steadiness of his nerves; secondly, by the confidence which the other
reposes in it, thus declared by stronger testimony than any oath. In
any case the feat of holding the mark is at least equal to that of
hitting it. There are many hunters willing to risk taking the shot, but
few who care to hold the shell.

It was a fearful sight, and my nerves tingled as I looked on. Many
others felt as I. No one interfered. There were few present who would
have dared, even had these two men been making preparations to fire at
each other. Both were "men of mark" among their comrades: trappers of
the first class.

Garey, drawing a long breath, planted himself firmly, the heel of his
left foot opposite to, and some inches in advance of, the hollow of his
right. Then, jerking up his gun, and throwing the barrel across his
left palm, he cried out to his comrade--

"Steady, ole bone an' sinyer! hyar's at ye!"

The words were scarcely out when the gun was levelled. There was a
moment's death-like silence, all eyes looking to the mark. Then came
the crack, and the shell was seen to fly, shivered into fifty fragments!
There was a cheer from the crowd. Old Rube stopped to pick up one of
the pieces, and after examining it for a moment, shouted in a loud
voice;--

"Plumb centre, by--!"

The young trapper had, in effect, hit the mark in the very centre, as
the blue stain of the bullet testified.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A FEAT A LA TELL.

All eyes were turned upon the strange Indian. During the scene
described he has stood silent, and calmly looking on. His eye now
wanders over the ground, apparently in search of an object.

A small convolvulus, known as the prairie gourd, is lying at his feet.
It is globe-shaped, about the size of an orange, and not unlike one in
colour. He stoops and takes it up. He seems to examine it with great
care, balancing it upon his hand, as though he were calculating its
weight.

What does he intend to do with this? Will he fling it up, and send his
bullet through it in the air? What else?

His motions are watched in silence. Nearly all the scalp-hunters, sixty
or seventy, are on the ground. Seguin only, with the doctor and a few
men, is engaged some distance off, pitching a tent. Garey stands upon
one side, slightly elated with his triumph, but not without feelings of
apprehension that he may yet be be