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.
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