“He was friendly to the whites and harmless. It was a poor piece of work.”
“The reason why we didn’t sculp him was that it would ’a’ spoiled the joke,” defended Hacker. “With his hair on and the johnny-cake in his mouth, folks would think he was still alive till they got real close.”
“The three of us done that,” informed Scott, as though jealous of Runner’s receiving all the credit.
“Morris means it was a poor job because the chief was said to be friendly to white folks,” explained Runner, scowling at me.
“Morris, you’d better go up to David’s and tell Ike Crabtree that,” jeered Hacker.
“Crabtree is there, is he?” I said, deeply concerned for the safety of the three Indians.
“He started for there. He’ll feel mighty well cut up when he hears about us and this Injun in the hole,” gravely declared Scott.
“How many cabins on Howard’s Creek now?” I asked; for a cabin could be put up in a few hours and the population at any point might greatly increase in the space of twenty-four hours. I had no desire to quarrel with the three men, and I realized that there was nothing I could say which would change their natures, or make them act in a human manner toward friendly Indians.
Runner was inclined to harbor resentment and refused to answer me. Hacker, however, readily informed me:
“There was five when I come through there last. With outlying settlers pouring in, there may be a dozen by this time. All I know is that the call’s gone out for fifteen or twenty miles, asking every one to come in to the big log-rolling.