Then the Indian spoke.
“Why should I kill white boy?” he asked in a mild tone, which ought to have convinced Henry that he had nothing to fear.
But the boy was so frenzied with terror, and so possessed of the thought that the Indian was just like the savage warriors of the plains, of whom he had read so much, that he still felt his life to be in danger, and answered the question in a way not expected.
“I suppose you want my scalp,” he said; “but I am only a boy, and I don’t mean any harm. I hope you’ll spare my life.”
Another fit of guttural laughter from the Indian, which perplexed Henry, and after a pause he said:
“Me no want white boy’s scalp! Me good Indian!”
An immense burden seemed lifted from poor Henry’s breast.
“Then you don’t want to kill me?” he said.
“No!”
“Then why do you come here?”