“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 wished to gloat over the mental distress of his foe. He liked to prolong his own feeling of power--to enjoy the consciousness that, at any moment, he could put an end to the life of the man whom he hated for the blows which he felt had degraded him, and which he was resolved never to forget or forgive. It was the same feeling that has often led those of his race to torture their hapless victims, that they may, as long as possible, enjoy the spectacle of their agonies. For this reason he was in no hurry to speed on its way the fatal bullet. Again the Indian laughed, and, taking aim, made a feint of firing, but withheld his shot. Pale and resolute his intended victim continued to face him. He thought that the fatal moment had come, and braced himself to meet his fate; but he was destined to be disappointed. “How long is this goin' to last, you red hound?” he demanded. “If I've got to die, I am ready.” “Indian can wait!” said the savage, with a smile of enjoyment.