It is hard to explain the mood of the African. He had earned the contempt of his friends by his timidity, but now none showed more intrepidity than he. Possibly he was so scared as to be unable to distinguish between danger and safety. That may be the right theory, but it cannot make clear what he did within the following three minutes.
Inevitably a painted redskin lying low in the grass took a shot at the dusky form and came startlingly near hitting him. It was a critical moment, but in the brief interval Jethro recalled one of Shagbark’s reminiscences, in which he told of dodging every return bullet during a night attack by rolling aside the instant he fired his gun. The circumstances now were precisely the same as in the former instance, except the position of the contending parties was reversed: the Indians were the assailants.
“It’s dem dat will flop over like a buckwheat cake de minute dey fires,” reflected Jethro, “but how de mischief ken I know which way de rapscallions will turn? Mos’ folks am right-handed, and I guess dat’s de way this sarpint will flop. If I’m right I must shoot to his left, ’cause he am facing me.”
