“And your long rifle! And the rifles of all these other men! What good would they have done? They spoke night before last, and the Indians kept up their attack. Then my father spoke and the Indians have gone! John Ward, who was out scouting when the Indians attacked, says they greatly outnumbered us and were led by Black Hoof, one of their greatest chiefs. He says they would have captured or killed us if not for my father. Now, Mr. Rifleman, what do you think about the influence of an honest trader?”
I would not have shaken her pride in her father even had that accomplishment been possible. To convince her—which was not possible—that her father’s success was no success at all, that Black Hoof’s behavior was simply an Indian trick to lull us into a foolish sense of security, would mean to alienate even her friendship, let alone killing all chance of her ever reciprocating my love.
While not deeply experienced with women, my instinct early taught me that my sex is most unwise in proving to a woman that she is wrong. She will hold such procedure to be the man’s greatest fault. It is far better to let her discover her own errors, and even then pretend you still cling to her first reasoning, thereby permitting her to convince you that she was wrong.
On the other hand there was, I sensed, a peril in the situation, a peril to Howard’s Creek, that made my seeming acquiescence in her opinion very distasteful to me. I had no proof of my suspicions except my knowledge of Indian nature and my familiarity with frontier history. A red man can be capable of great and lasting friendships. But to judge him, when he is at war, by the standards of the white race is worse than foolish.
Cornstalk, according to his blood, was a great man. Under certain conditions I would trust him with my life as implicitly as I would trust any white man. Under certain conditions I would repose this same trust in him although he was at war with my race. But when placed among the combatants opposing him, I knew there was no subterfuge even that great warrior would not use to attain success.
So I said nothing of my doubts, nothing of my vague suspicions concerning John Ward. I felt a strong antipathy toward the fellow, and I realized this dislike might prejudice me to a degree not warranted by the facts. To put it mildly, his status puzzled me. If he were an escaped prisoner then he had committed one of the gravest sins in the red man’s entire category.
To be taken into the tribe, to be adopted after his white blood had been washed out by solemn ceremony, and then to run away, meant the stake and horrible preliminary tortures should he be recaptured. As a prize such a runaway would be more eagerly sought than any settler. And yet the fellow was back on the fringe of imminent danger and ranging the woods unconcernedly. His captivity must have taught him that every war-party would be instructed to bring him in alive if possible.
“What’s the matter with you, Basdel?” demanded the girl sharply as she turned and walked by my side toward the Davis cabin. “You act queer. Do you begrudge giving my father his due? Aren’t you thankful he was here to stop the attack?”
“If he were here alone, yes. But I am terribly worried because you are here, Patsy.”
“But that’s doubting my father’s influence!” she rebuked, her eyes lighting war-signals.