This was Francis’s kind of fighting. The circling, looking for a weakness, was how he had learned to wrestle with white boys, and he noticed now a weakness in the Indian. He favored his right leg, the one Francis had twisted.

It was simple, then. All Francis had to do was feint to the left, then come in hard on the right. The Indian boy would be slow that way, and Francis could get a neck hold, usually a match-stopper.

He feinted, and came in on the right, and the Indian boy was waiting for him. The weak leg had been only a bait, and Francis ran straight into a backhanded slap across his windpipe. It stopped his breathing again, and in the brief second that he hesitated, the Indian tripped him and used Francis’s own hold—the reverse back arch. But there was a new twist. Instead of grabbing Francis around the neck, the Indian boy wrapped his fingers in Francis’s hair, where there was no grease.

Still another grunt came from the crowd. Surely this would be the end of the match. The white boy couldn’t move, and he couldn’t get away. Some of the men even turned to go back to their lodges.

Francis couldn’t move. He tried relaxing again, but the trick didn’t work a second time. The Indian boy had him. It wasn’t over, though, after all. Mr. Grimes leaned over from the edge of the circle and whispered: “Mr. Tucket, there’s been talk of keeping you for Braid if you don’t put up a better fight.”

Francis didn’t really believe him. It was the sort of thing Mr. Grimes would say just to get him riled. But he wasn’t quite sure. The Indians did some funny things, and the thought of being sent back to Braid’s camp was a terrible thought.

The Indian boy did something completely natural. He spat to get the dust out of his mouth. He didn’t spit at or on Francis. But the spit landed about four inches in front of his eyes.

Francis saw pink, then red, and finally just fire. “Now you didn’t have to go and do that,” he yelled in English.