"Stay there, and catch this," I called, and I tossed her a small coin.

For all her squat figure and her broad, dull face, she was quick of
action as a weasel. She put her hands behind her, and, thrusting her
head forward, caught the coin in her teeth. It was well done; so well
that I said "Brava," and the braves around me gave approving grunts.

"Look at the stupid Frenchman!" I heard a brave say. "For all his red
coat, and his manners, he cannot catch as well as a squaw."

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?"