from the centre of the area allowed him for his exercise,
and invited the lookers-on individually to battle. "Whar's your
buffalo-bull," he cried, "to cross horns with the roarer of Salt River?
Whar's your full-blood colt that can shake a saddle off? h'yar's an old
nag can kick off the top of a buck-eye! Whar's your cat of the Knobs?
your wolf of the Rolling Prairies? h'yar's the old brown b'ar can claw
the bark off a gum tree! H'yar's a man for you, Tom Bruce! Same to you,
Sim Roberts! to you, Jimmy Big-nose! to you, and to you, and to you!
Ar'n't I a ring-tailed squealer? Can go down Salt on my back, and swim up
the Ohio! Whar's the man to fight Roaring Ralph Stackpole?"

Now, whether it happened that there were none present inclined to a
contest with such a champion, or whether it was that the young men looked
upon the exhibition as a mere bravado meant rather to amuse them than
irritate, it so occurred that not one of them accepted the challenge;
though each, when personally called on, did his best to add to the
roarer's fury, if fury it really were, by letting off sundry jests in
relation to borrowed horses and Regulators.[3] That the fellow's rage was
in great part assumed, Roland, who was, at first, somewhat amused at his
extravagance, became soon convinced; and growing at last weary of it, he
was about to signify to his host his inclination to return into the fort,
when the appearance of another individual on the ground suddenly gave
promise of new entertainment.

[Footnote 3: It is scarce necessary to inform the reader that by
this term must be understood those public-spirited citizens, amateur
jack-ketches, who administer Lynch-law in districts where regular law
is but inefficiently, or not at all, established.]

CHAPTER IV.

"If you're ralely ripe for a fight, Roaring Ralph," cried Tom Bruce the
younger, who had shown, like the others, a greater disposition to jest
than to do battle with the champion, "here comes the very man for you.
Look, boys, thar comes Bloody Nathan!" At which formidable name there was
a loud shout set up, with an infinite deal of laughing and clapping of
hands.

"Whar's the fellow?" cried Captain Stackpole, springing six feet into the
air, and uttering a whoop of anticipated triumph. "I've heerd of the
brute, and, 'tarnal death to me, but I'm his super-superior! Show me tho
critter, and let me fly! Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

"Hurrah for Roaring Ralph Stackpole!" cried the young