“Not at all.”
“You must feel or think something.”
“What should I think except that an Indian has been here?”
“Not afraid?”
“Not a bit.”
“Oh,” cried Sam, “you’re living up to your name of Shatterhand; but I tell you that Indians are not so easy to shatter; you don’t know them.”
“But I hope to understand them. They must be like other men, enemies to their enemies, friends to their friends; and as I mean to treat them well, I don’t see why I should fear them.”
“You’ll find out,” said Sam, “or you’ll be a greenhorn for eternity. You may treat the Indians as you like, and it won’t turn out as you expect, for the results don’t depend on your will. You’ll learn by experience, and I only hope the experience won’t cost you your life.”
This was not cheering, and for some time we rode through the pleasant autumn air in silence.
Suddenly Sam reined up his horse, and looked ahead earnestly through half-closed lids. “By George,” he cried excitedly, “there they are! Actually there they are, the very first ones.”