The Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way by Jr. Horatio Alger (most life changing books .TXT) 📕

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?”

“Me live here.”

The secret was out—a secret which Philip had suspected from the first, though Henry had not dreamed of it.

They had lain down in the Indian's cabin, appropriating his blanket, and were simply intruders.

Philip thought it was time for him to take part in the conversation,

“I hope you'll excuse us,” he said, “for coming here. We had no idea any one lived here.”

“No matter,” said the Indian civilly—that being one of the phrases which his knowledge of English included.

“Henry,” said Philip, “let us get up. We are sleeping in this—this gentleman's bed.”

He felt a little at a loss how to designate the Indian, but felt that it was best to be as polite as possible.

The two boys started up, in order to yield to the master of the house the bed which properly belonged to him.

“No,” said the Indian, with a wave of his hand. “White boys stay there. Indian sleep anywhere.”

So saying, he lay down in one corner of the cabin, and settled himself apparently to repose.

“But,” said Philip, “we don't want to take your bed.”

“No matter!” said the Indian once more.

“You are very kind,” said Philip. “Henry, we may as well lay down again.”

Henry obeyed directions, but he was not altogether free from alarm. He had read that the Indians are very crafty. How did he know but their copper-colored host might get up in the night, skillfully remove their scalps, and leave them in a very uncomfortable plight?

“Hadn't we better get up, and run away as soon as he is asleep?” he whispered to Philip.

“No; he's friendly,” answered Philip confidently.

As Henry had read about friendly Indians—all he knew about Indians, by the way, was derived from reading stories written by authors little wiser than himself—he concluded that perhaps there was nothing to fear, and after a while fell asleep again.

When the boys awoke it was morning. They looked toward the corner where the Indian had lain down, but it was vacant.

“He's gone.” said Henry, rather relieved.

“You were pretty well frightened last night,” said Philip, smiling.

“Who wouldn't be!” asked Henry; “to wake up and see a big Indian in the room?”

“I dare say many boys would be frightened,” said Philip, “but I don't think a boy who left home to go out West to kill Indians ought to be afraid of one.”

“I guess I'll give up going,” said Henry, rather abashed.

“I think myself it would be as well,” observed Philip quietly. “You'd find it rather serious business if you should meet any real Indian warriors.”

“I don't know but I should,” Henry admitted, rather awkwardly. “I didn't think much about it when I left home.”

“I suppose you thought you'd be a match for half a dozen Indian warriors?” said Philip, laughing.

“That was the way with 'Bully Bill'; or, 'The Hero of the Plains,'” said Henry. “He always came off best when he fought with the Indians.”

“I don't think either you or I will ever prove a Bully Bill,” said Philip. “I might enjoy going out West some time, but I shouldn't expect to kill many Indians. I think they would stand a good deal better chance of shooting me.”

Henry said nothing, but looked thoughtful. His romantic ideas seemed to have received a sudden shock, and he was trying to adjust his ideas to the new light he had received.

The boys were preparing to go out, when their Indian host suddenly reappeared. He carried in his hand a large-sized loaf of baker's bread, which he had procured at the village store. He was alive to the duties of hospitality, and did not intend to let his guests go, uninvited though they were, without a breakfast.

Though his stock of English was limited, he made out to invite the boys to breakfast with him.

Henry would have preferred to go to the hotel, but Philip signed to him to accept graciously the Indian's hospitality.

As the bread was fresh, they partook of it with relish, washing it down with drafts of clear spring water.

The Indian looked on, well pleased to see the justice done to his hospitality. He explained to the boys that he made baskets, caught fish, and sometimes engaged in hunting, managing, in one way and another, to satisfy his simple wants. His name was Winuca, but his white neighbors called him Tom.

When the boys were ready to go, Philip drew from his pocket a jack-knife, nearly new, of which he asked the Indian's acceptance.

Winuca seemed very much pleased, and shook hands heartily with his young guests, wishing them good-by.

The boys kept on to the hotel, where they spent a few hours, taking dinner there. Their breakfast had been so simple that they had a very good appetite for their midday meal.

“While we are here, Henry, suppose you write to your father and relieve his anxiety?” suggested Philip.

“Why can't you write?” asked Henry, who cherished the general boyish distaste for letter-writing.

“Because it will be more proper for you to write. I am a stranger to him.”

“You won't be long, Philip? I shall want you to come and