“I wouldn’t do some of the things I used to do,” he replied evasively.
The Schoolmarm beamed encouragement.
“I’m glad of that.”
“I used to kill Injuns for fifty dollars a head, but I wouldn’t do it now,” he said virtuously, adding: “I’d get my neck stretched.”
“You’ve killed people—Indians—for money!” The Schoolmarm looked at him, wide-eyed with horror.
“They was clutterin’ up the range,” Smith explained patiently, “and the cattlemen needed it for their stock. I’d ’a’ killed ’em for nothin’, but when ’twas offered, I might as well get the bounty.”
The Schoolmarm scarcely knew what to say; his explanation seemed so entirely satisfactory to himself.
“I’m glad those dreadful days have gone.”
“They’re gone all right,” Smith answered sourly. “They make dum near as much fuss over an Injun as a white man now, and what with jumpin’ up deputies at every turn in the road, ’tain’t safe. Why, I heard a judge say a while back that killin’ an Injun was pure murder.”
“I appreciate your confidence—your telling me of your life,” said the Schoolmarm, in lieu of something better.