"But is he a nigger?" asks Spence, to whom the strange youth has been hitherto unknown. "I should have taken him for a white." "Three-quarters white--the rest Indian. His mother was a half-bred Choctaw. I've often seen the lot at our store." It is Grubbs who gives this information. "Injun or nigger, what's the difference?" proceeded the brutal Buck. "He's got starch enough for either; and, as you say, Alf Brandon, let's take it out of him. All agreed, boys?" "All! all!" "What do you say, Judge Randall! You've not spoken yet, and as you're a judge we wait for your decision." "Oh, if there's fun to be had, _I'm_ with you. What do you propose doing with him?" "Leave that to me," says Brandon, turning to the quarter-bred, who at this moment has arrived opposite the camp fire. "Hilloa Choc! What's the hurry? We've been having a trial of strength here--who can hang longest by one arm to this branch? Suppose you put in too, and see what you can do?" "I don't desire it; besides, I have no time to spare for sport." The young hunter, halted for only a moment, is about to move on. The companionship thus offered is evidently uncongenial. He suspects that some mischief is meant. He can read it in the eyes of all six; in their faces flushed with corn-whiskey. Their tone, too, is insulting. "You're afraid you'll get beat," sneeringly rejoins Brandon. "Though you have Indian blood in you, there ought to be enough white to keep you from showing coward." "A coward! I'll thank you not to repeat that Mr Alfred Brandon." "Well, then, show yourself a man, and make the trial. I've heard that you boast of having strong arms. I'll bet that I can hang longer to that branch than you--that any of us can." "What will you bet you can?" asks the young hunter, stirred, perhaps, by the hope of employing his strength to a profitable purpose. "My rifle against yours. Looking at the value of the guns, that is quite two to one." "Three to one," says the son of the store-keeper. "I don't admit it," answers the hunter. "I prefer my piece to yours, with all its silvering upon it. But I accept your challenge, and will take the bet as you have proposed it." "Enough. Now, boys, stand by and see fair play. You, Slaughter, you keep time. Here's my watch." The girl is going away; Brandon evidently wishes she should do so. He has some design--some malice _prepense_, of which he does not desire her to be a witness. Whatever it is he has communicated it to his fellows, all of whom show a like willingness for Lena Rook--such is her name--to take her departure. Their free glances and freer speech produce the desired effect. Her father's shanty is not far off. She knows the road without any guidance, and moves off along it, not, however, without casting a glance towards her late travelling companion, in which might be detected a slight shadow of apprehension.