s red
coat, and his manners, he cannot catch as well as a squaw."

I pointed my finger at him, and twirled my mustaches as if I were
playing villain in a comedy. "A Frenchman does not stoop to catch
money," I vaunted, with my arm akimbo. "Money is for slaves and women.
Give the Frenchman a spear, a man's weapon, and then see if he can be
beaten at throwing by a squaw."

There was a laugh at this, and the squaw to whom I had thrown the coin
seized a sturgeon spear that leaned against a kettle, and hurled it at
me. I turned my back, and caught it over my shoulder. There was a
hush among the braves for a moment, then a low growl of applause. "Let
him do it again," several voices cried.

I did it again, and yet again, in varying ways. The squaw threw well,
and caught better, but she was no match for my longer reach and better
training. Still we kept the spear hurtling. With each throw I backed
a pace or two toward the council fire, and the crowd made way for me.

"This is enough," I cried at length. "Have you no men among you who
can throw better than your women?"

A dozen braves, each clamoring, leaped forward, but before I could
select one of them, a young Huron elbowed his way into the midst of
them and placed himself before me.

"Try your skill with me," he cried, striking his breast, and though he
spoke a broken mixture of Huron and Ottawa, his air was so rhetorical
that the Ottawas, always keen for a dramatic moment, stopped to listen.

I balanced the spear in my hand. "I am trying my skill with the
Ottawas," I said. "Since when has Pemaou, the Huron, forsaken his own
camp?"

The Huron drew back. He was a son of that adroit traitor, the Baron,
and what his presence in this camp meant, I could only surmise. But
that he was of the Baron's blood was enough for me, and I was prepared
to dislike him without searching for excuse. He, on his part, looked
equally unfriendly. He resented my recognition, and taking his war
spear from his belt he sent it at me with a vicious fling.

This heated my blood. I caught the spear, and tested it across my
knee. It was pliant but tough, and wickedly barbed,--a weapon for a
man to respect. "So you wanted the color of my blood," I called
angrily. "You have a good spear; all that was lacking was a man to aim
it;" and with a contemptuous laugh I tossed the spear back to his hand.

Now this was mere childishness, and I knew it, and hoped, with shame
for my own l