n his foe, and make him show the white
feather.

"Afraid!" retorted the hunter. "Who should I be afraid of?"

"Of Indian."

"Don't flatter yourself, you pesky savage," returned the white man,
coolly, ejecting a flood of tobacco juice from his mouth, for though he
was a brave man, he had some drawbacks. "You needn't think I am afraid
of you."

"Indian shoot!" suggested his enemy, watching the effect of this
announcement.

"Well, shoot, then, and be done with it."

"White man no want to live?"

"Of course I want to live. Never saw a healthy white man that didn't. If
I was goin' to die at all, I wouldn't like to die by the hands of a red
rascal like you."

"Indian great warrior," said the dusky denizen of the woods,
straightening up, and speaking complacently.

"Indian may be great warrior, but he is a horse thief, all the same,"
said the hunter, coolly.

"White man soon die, and Indian wear his scalp," remarked the Indian, in
a manner likely to disturb the composure of even the bravest listener.

The hunter's face changed. It was impossible to reflect upon such a fate
without a pang. Death was nothing to that final brutality.

"Ha! White man afraid now!" said the Indian, triumphantly--quick to
observe the change of expression in his victim.

"No, I am not afraid," said the hunter, quickly recovering himself; "but
it's enough to disgust any decent man to think that his scalp will
soon be dangling from the belt of a filthy heathen like you. However, I
suppose I won't know it after I'm dead. You have skulked and dogged my
steps, you red hound, ever since I punished you for trying to steal my
horse. I made one great mistake. Instead of beating you, I should have
shot you, and rid the earth of you once for all."

"Indian no forget white man's blows. White man die, and Indian be
revenged."

"Yes, I s'pose that's what it's coming to," said the hunter, in a tone
of resignation. "I was a 'tarnal fool to come out this mornin' without
my gun. If I had it you would sing a different song."

Again the Indian laughed, a low, guttural, unpleasant laugh, which
Herbert listened to with a secret shudder. It was so full of malignity,
and cunning triumph, and so suggestive of the fate which he reserved for
his white foe, that it aggravated the latter, and made him impatient to
have the blow fall, since it seemed to be inevitable.

"Why don't you shoot, you red savage?" he cried. "What are you waiting
for?"

The Indian