Frank Merriwell's Athletes Part 36

"In not shooting the Injun? Yes, I reckon I was. Ordinarily I'd filled him full of lead. That's the only way to let the devilment out of them dogs."

"Oh, but it is awful!" exclaimed the girl. "I suppose there are some real bad Indians."

"Some! Well, I should warble! Excuse me, miss. They are all bad-every one of them!"

Inza shook her head.

"No! no!" she cried. "I know you are mistaken! There are some good Indians."

"They're all dead ones."

"I can't think so, sir."

"That's because you don't know 'em, miss. If you had seen the things I have-- Well, you wouldn't think there could be such a thing as a good Injun alive."

Still the girl could not be convinced.

"Why," she exclaimed, "you saw the one who saved me from the drunken fellow. He was an Indian."

"Yes."

"Surely he is a good Indian."

"You may think so."

"I know it!" she cried, her cheeks beginning to glow, as she warmed to the defense of her red champion. "He showed it in his face. Mr.

Merriwell knows him. He has been East to the Indian school at Carlisle, and he is educated. He had the manners of a gentleman, and I believe he has a true and good heart."

"That shows how little you Eastern people know of Indians. All the education they may have will not make them anything but what they are-and that is bad all the way through."

"I will not believe that, sir!"

Carver smiled.

"I do not expect you to believe it. Eastern people seldom do."

"John Swiftwing has the making of a splendid man in him. He plays on the Carlisle football team, and Frank says he is one of their best players.

He is like a tiger in a game."

"I don't doubt it. Football is a savage's game at best, and it allows him to work off some of his savage traits. He goes into the struggle as he would go into a battle, and he rejoices in beating down and trampling on all who oppose him. His heart at such a time is a perfect inferno of fury, and, give him a deadly weapon, he would not hesitate to murder.

With his bare hands he has little chance to kill. Oh, yes, football is a splendid game for savages!"

It was Merriwell's turn to smile.

"Mr. Carver," he said, quite calmly, "you are showing how very ignorant you are about football. It's a man's game, and only men of nerve, as well as skill and strength, can play it."

Carver's brow darkened for a moment and then cleared.

"It is natural you should think so," he nodded. "You are a college football player. Never mind that; we'll not discuss it. But it is certain that all the education John Swiftwing may receive will not change him from a savage. It may seem to make a change in his exterior, but inwardly he will remain the same. All efforts to educate and change him are wasted, as such efforts are wasted on all Indians."

By this time Inza was so aroused that she was growing angry, and she could not hold herself in check.

"You couldn't make me believe that if you were to talk forever!" she cried. "I am sure there is as much difference between Indians as there is between white men. John Swiftwing is a n.o.ble fellow, and I know it-so there!"

Carver bowed, again lifting his silk hat.

"'A woman convinced against her will is of the same opinion still'," he said.

"But I'm not convinced."

"Then I shall not try to convince you, miss; but I do wish to warn you to keep away from that gang out there."

He motioned toward the distant tepees, where figures could be seen moving about and blue smoke was rising.

"Those are Apaches," he said; "the worst Indians on the face of G.o.d's footstool. They are utterly without conscience or anything else that is not vile, and it might not be safe for you to approach too near them, even though they are supposed to be quite peaceable just now."

"How do they happen to be here?" asked Frank.

"They have come to trade baskets, buckskin shirts, moccasins, almost anything, for liquor. It is probable there will be two thousand visitors there to-day, and the Apaches will get all the rum they want. To-morrow they may start out murdering and torturing."

Inza shuddered.

"It seems to me that the white men are to blame for letting them have liquor," she said.

"Perhaps so, but you know there are fools and rascals among the white men. Remember my warning; keep away from the Apache camp. Good-morning."

Again lifting his hat, he walked onward.

CHAPTER XIX-ON DANGEROUS GROUND

Behind a clump of mesquite stood John Swiftwing, and he had heard the entire conversation. He was there when Frank and Inza met Carver, and he did not stir. He had not sought to listen, and he did not think it his duty to reveal himself.

Swiftwing's eyes flashed fire and his brow grew dark as he listened to the words of the gambler, but a softer light came to his face when he heard Inza defending him so bravely.

He folded his arms upon his breast and stood there in a proud pose, his nostrils dilated.

At that moment he would have made a perfect model for an artist or sculptor.

Swiftwing's face was far from expressionless, for various emotions were depicted upon it as he heard the words of the three beyond the mesquite.

He betrayed rage, pride and grat.i.tude, and his broad chest arose and fell tumultuously.

When Carver strolled on, Frank and Inza turned about and retraced their steps toward the Pueblo. As they departed, the unseen Indian heard Inza say:

"I will not believe John Swiftwing is a bad Indian! He has a n.o.ble face, and you told me, Frank, that you thought him a fine fellow."