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 lack of sense, that Pemaou would not accept my covert challenge, and that the matter would end there.  But Pemaou had purposes of his own.  He looked at the spear for a moment, then sent it spinning toward my head.  “On guard!” he cried in my own tongue, and I remembered that he had spent some time among the French at Montreal.

I caught the spear, and cursed myself for a fool.  The Indians again gave tongue to their approval, and gathered in a ring, leaving the space between Pemaou and myself clear.  All was ready for the game to proceed.  I hesitated a moment, and the Ottawas laughed, while Pemaou looked disdainful.