“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 noble 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 God’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.