“Why not?” asked Tom.
“Your friend Brush will tell you as I do, that we are more liable to encounter Indians. They naturally seek the woods and hills.”
“Yet the two travelers whom we buried were on the prairie.”
“That is true; of course, the savages roam over the prairies at times, but even there they may be seen long beforehand. Here one may come upon them suddenly.”
“What the doctor says is gospel truth,” said Peter Brush, gravely. “I feel more anxious in my mind than I did yesterday. But it isn’t best to worry overmuch. I’ve been over the plains—at least as far as Utah—half a dozen times, and I’ve never been in the clutches of the redskins yet.”
“I hope I shall be as lucky, Mr. Brush,” said Tom.
“I hope so, too. To my mind they are a set of poisonous reptiles that ought to be exterminated. I don’t know what they were made for, anyway.”
“Your views are extreme, friend Brush,” said Lycurgus Spooner. “I have no great liking for the redmen myself, but it is certain that the fault is not wholly on their side. They have been badly treated by our race.”
“No more than they deserved,” said Mr. Brush, stubbornly, for he was strongly prejudiced. “I’d like to argy the point.”