Ramona stopped, setting down the basket.
“Poor fellow,” she said. “He has a hard trip before him, he is going to join relatives and must cross desert land to reach them. It is hard, the way the Indians are treated.”
“Why are so many people cruel?” Ruth wondered. “When you read history or even stories, it seems as if the world were full of cruel people.”
“I guess they like to write about the cruel ones more than the kind ones,” Rose explained. “What made them say this Indian had stolen a horse?”
Ramona told them that the Americans were chasing the Indians from their homes, and that sometimes they accused them of doing things in order to get rid of them, or to kill them. “They wanted this man’s farm, and this was the easiest way to get it,” she added, bitterly. For the gentle Ramona was moved to the depths of her, and had heard many a sad tale told over the sheep-shearings and among the servants.
The Indian came up at this moment, looking rather doubtfully at Rose and Ruth.
“These are my friends, and have helped me carry this to you,” Ramona said, giving him the basket. “But I fear it is too little to help you far. Will you find any one else on the way?”
“Back among the mountains there will be some. May the Saints bless you, Señorita. My horse is rested, and I must go at once.” He looked gravely at the two sisters. “They accused me of stealing my own horse, the horse I had raised from a colt,” he said. “There is no place left for the Indians now, none at all! They must die ...”
“No, no,” cried Ramona, “things will get better, there will be a happier time for you all. Now you must go. If any enquire after you, I shall know how to send them back.”
The Indian whistled, bringing up to him a graceful black horse with white feet and nose that trotted fearlessly forward and stopped close at his side. He smiled at the girls.