While Colonel Bruce was thus delineating the character of Nathan Slaughter, the latter found himself surrounded by the young men of the Station, the butt of a thousand jests, and the victim of the insolence of the captain of horse-thieves.  It is not to be supposed that Roaring Ralph was really the bully and madman that his extravagant freaks and expressions seemed to proclaim him.  These, like any other “actions that a man might play,” were assumed, partly because it suited his humour to be fantastic, and partly because the putting of his antic disposition on, was the only means which he, like many of his betters, possessed of attracting attention, and avoiding the neglect and contempt to which his low habits and appearance would have otherwise justly consigned him.  There was, therefore, little really hostile in the feelings with which he approached the non-combatant; though it was more than probable, the disgust he, in common with the other warlike personages, entertained toward the peaceable Nathan, might have rendered him a little more malicious than usual.

“Nathan!” said he, as soon as he had concluded his neighing and curvetting, “if you ever said your prayers, now’s the time.  Down with your pack—­for I can’t stand deer’s ha’r sticking in my swallow, no how!”

“Friend,” said Nathan, meekly, “I beg thee will not disturb me.  I am a man of peace and quiet.”

And so saying, he endeavoured to pass onwards, but was prevented by Ralph, who, seizing his heavy bundle with one hand, applied his right foot to it with a dexterity that not only removed it from the poor man’s back, but sent the dried skins scattering over the road.  This feat was rewarded by the spectators with loud shouts, all which, as well as the insult itself, Nathan bore with exemplary patience.

“Friend,” he said, “what does thee seek of me, that thee treats me thus?”

“A fight!” replied Captain Stackpole, uttering a war-whoop; “a fight, strannger, for the love of heaven!”

“Thee seeks it of the wrong person,” said Nathan; “and I beg thee will get thee away,”

“What!” said Stackpole, “arn’t thee the Pennsylvanny war-horse, the screamer of the meeting-house, the ba’r of Yea-Nay-and-Verily?”

“I am a man of peace,” said the submissive Slaughter.

“Yea verily, verily and yea!” cried Ralph, snuffling through the nostrils, but assuming an air of extreme indignation:  “Strannger, I’ve heerd of you!  You’re the man that holds it agin duty and conscience to kill Injuns, the redskin screamers—­that refuses to defend the women, the splendiferous creatur’s! and the little children, the squall-a-baby d’avs!  And wharfo’?  Bec’ause as how you’re a man of peace and no fight, you superiferous, long-legged, no-souled crittur!  But I’m the gentleman to make a man of you.  So down with your gun, and ’tarnal death to me, I’ll whip the cowardly devil out of you.”

“Friend,” said Nathan, his humility yielding to a feeling of contempt, “thee is theeself a cowardly person, or thee wouldn’t seek a quarrel with one thee knows can’t fight thee Thee would not be so ready with thee match.”