Part 41 (1/2)
”I am glad I was near,” said Herbert, ”but it seems to me a terrible thing to shoot a man. I'm glad it wasn't I that killed him.”
”Mebbe it was better for me, as he was my enemy,” said Jack Holden. ”It won't trouble my conscience a mite. I don't look upon an Indian as a man.”
”Why not?”
”He's a snake in the gra.s.s--a poisonous serpent, that's what I call him,” said Jack Holden.
Herbert shook his head. He couldn't a.s.sent to this.
”You feel different, no doubt. You're a tenderfoot. You ain't used to the ways of these reptiles. You haven't seen what I have,” answered Holden.
”What have you seen?” asked Herbert, judging correctly that Holden referred to some special experience.
”I'll tell you. You see, I'm an old settler in this Western country.
I've traveled pretty much all over the region beyond the Rockies, and I've seen a good deal of the red men. I know their ways as well as any man. Well, I was trampin' once in Montany, when, one afternoon, I and my pard--he was prospectin'--came to a clearin', and there we saw a sight that made us all feel sick. It was the smokin' ruins of a log cabin, which them devils had set on fire. But that wasn't what I referred to. Alongside there lay six dead bodies--the man, his wife, two boys, somewhere near your age, a little girl, of maybe ten, and a baby--all butchered by them savages, layin'--in the hunter's vernacular--in their gore. It was easy to see how they'd killed the baby, by his broken skull. They had seized the poor thing by the feet, and swung him against the side of the house, das.h.i.+n' out his brains.”
Herbert shuddered, and felt sick, as the picture of the ruined home and the wretched family rose before his imagination.
”It was Indians that did it, of course,” proceeded Holden. ”They're born savage, and such things come natural to them.”
”Are there no good Indians?” asked the boy.
”There may be,” answered Jack Holden, doubtfully, ”though I haven't seen many. They're as scarce as plums in a boardin' house puddin', I reckon.”
I present this as Jack Holden's view, not mine. He had the prejudices of the frontier, and frontiersmen are severe judges of their Indian neighbors. They usually look at but one side of the picture, and are not apt to take into consideration the wrongs which the Indians have undeniably received. There is another extreme, however, and the sentimentalists who deplore Indian wrongs, and represent them as a brave, suffering and oppressed people, are quite as far away from a just view of the Indian question.
”What's your name, youngster?” asked Holden, with the curiosity natural under the circ.u.mstances.
”Herbert Carr.”
”Do you live nigh here?”
Herbert indicated, as well as he could, the location of his home.
”I know--you live with Mr. Falkland. Are you his son?”
”No; Mr. Falkland has gone away.”
”You're not living there alone, be you?”
”No; I came out here with a young man--Mr. Melville. He bought the cottage of Mr. Falkland, who was obliged to go East.”
”You don't say so. Why, we're neighbors. I live three miles from here.”
”Did you know Mr. Falkland?”
”Yes; we used to see each other now and then. He was a good fellow, but mighty queer. What's the use of settin' down and paintin' pictures?
What's the good of it all?”
”Don't you admire pictures, Mr. Holden?” asked Herbert.