"Yes, me savvee prayer," was the reply.

"All right, then you pray now, short time little bit. You say one fella
prayer damn quick, then me kill you."

Sheldon held the rifle on him and waited. The black glanced around at
his fellows, but none moved to aid him. They were intent upon the coming
spectacle, staring fascinated at the white man with death in his hands
who stood alone on the great veranda. Sheldon has won, and he knew it.
Astoa changed his weight irresolutely from one foot to the other. He
looked at the white man, and saw his eyes gleaming level along the
sights.

"Astoa," Sheldon said, seizing the psychological moment, "I count three
fella time. Then I shoot you fella dead, good-bye, all finish you."

And Sheldon knew that when he had counted three he would drop him in his
tracks. The black knew it, too. That was why Sheldon did not have to do
it, for when he had counted one, Astoa reached out his hand and took the
whip. And right well Astoa laid on the whip, angered at his fellows for
not supporting him and venting his anger with every stroke. From the
veranda Sheldon egged him on to strike with strength, till the two triced
savages screamed and howled while the blood oozed down their backs. The
lesson was being well written in red.

When the last of the gang, including the two howling culprits, had passed
out through the compound gate, Sheldon sank down half-fainting on his
couch.