You
needn't go if you don't like it. You see, you know the language and I
don't, but I know how to shoot, and you don't."
"That's perfectly satisfactory," said Stedman, handing his gun to old
Bradley. "I only wanted to know why I was to be sacrificed instead of
one of the Bradleys. It's because I know the language. Bradley, Sr.,
you see the evil results of a higher education. Wish me luck, please,"
he said, "and for goodness' sake," he added impressively, "don't waste
much time shooting goats."
The Hillmen had stopped about two hundred yards off, and were drawn up
in two lines, shouting, and dancing, and hurling taunting remarks at
their few adversaries. The stolen cattle were bunched together back of
the King. As Stedman walked steadily forward with his handkerchief
fluttering, and howling out something in their own tongue, they
stopped and listened. As he advanced, his three companions followed
him at about fifty yards in the rear. He was one hundred and fifty
yards from the Hillmen before they made out what he said, and then one
of the young braves, resenting it as an insult to his chief, shot an
arrow at him. Stedman dodged the arrow and stood his ground without
even taking a step backward, only turning slightly to put his hands to
his mouth, and to shout something which sounded to his companions
like, "About time to begin on the goats." But the instant the young
man had fired, King Messenwah swung his club and knocked him down, and
none of the others moved.
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