Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Do and Dare — a Brave Boy's Fight for Fortune by Jr. Horatio Alger (e books free to read .TXT) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Do and Dare — a Brave Boy's Fight for Fortune by Jr. Horatio Alger (e books free to read .TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
“White man send for friend!” suggested the Indian, tauntingly.
Herbert had listened to this colloquy with varying emotions, and his anger and indignation were stirred by the cold-blooded cruelty of the savage. He stood motionless, seen by neither party, but he held his weapon leveled at the Indian, ready to shoot at an instant's warning. Brought up, as he had been, with a horror for scenes of violence, and a feeling that human life was sacred, he had a great repugnance to use his weapon, even where it seemed his urgent duty to do so. He felt that on him, young as he was, rested a weighty responsibility. He could save the life of a man of his own color, but only by killing or disabling a red man. Indian though he was, his life, too, was sacred; but when he threatened the life of another he forfeited his claim to consideration.
Herbert hesitated till he saw it was no longer safe to do so—till he saw that it was the unalterable determination of the Indian to kill the hunter, and then, his face pale and fixed, he pulled the trigger.
His bullet passed through the shoulder of the savage. The latter uttered a shrill cry of surprise and dismay, and his weapon fell at his feet, while he pressed his left hand to his wounded shoulder.
The hunter, amazed at the interruption, which had been of such essential service to him, lost not a moment in availing himself of it. He bounded forward, and before the savage well knew what he purposed, he had picked up his fallen weapon, and, leveling it at his wounded foe, fired.
His bullet was not meant to disable, but to kill. It penetrated the heart of the savage, and, staggering back, he fell, his face distorted with rage and disappointment.
“The tables are turned, my red friend!” said the hunter, coolly. “It's your life, not mine, this time!”
At that moment Herbert, pale and shocked, but relieved as well, pressed forward, and the hunter saw him for the first time.
“Was it you, boy, who fired the shot?” asked the hunter, in surprise.
“Yes,” answered Herbert.
“Then I owe you my life, and that's a debt Jack Holden isn't likely to forget!”
CHAPTER XXXI. JACK HOLDEN ON THE INDIAN QUESTION.
It is a terrible thing to see a man stretched out in death who but a minute before stood full of life and strength. Herbert gazed at the dead Indian with a strange sensation of pity and relief, and could hardly realize that, but for his interposition, it would have been the hunter, not the Indian, who would have lost his life.
The hunter was more used to such scenes, and his calmness was unruffled.
“That's the end of the dog!” he said, touching with his foot the dead body.
“What made him want to kill you?” asked Herbert.
“Revenge,” answered Holden.
“For what? Had you injured him?”
“That's the way he looked at it. One day I caught the varmint stealin' my best hoss. He'd have got away with him, too, if I hadn't come home just as I did. I might have shot him—most men would—but I hate to take a man's life for stealin'; and I took another way. My whip was lyin' handy, and I took it and lashed the rascal over his bare back a dozen times, and then told him to dust, or I'd serve him worse. He left, but there was an ugly look in his eyes, and I knew well enough he'd try to get even.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Most a year. It's a long time, but an Indian never forgets an injury or an insult, and I knew that he was only bidin' his time. So I always went armed, and kept a good lookout. It was only this mornin' that he caught me at a disadvantage. I'd been taking a walk, and left my gun at home. He was prowlin' round, and soon saw how things stood. He'd have killed me sure, if you hadn't come in the nick of time.”
“I am glad I was near,” said Herbert, “but it seems to me a terrible thing to shoot a man. I'm glad it wasn't I that killed him.”
“Mebbe it was better for me, as he was my enemy,” said Jack Holden. “It won't trouble my conscience a mite. I don't look upon an Indian as a man.”
“Why not?”
“He's a snake in the grass—a poisonous serpent, that's what I call him,” said Jack Holden.
Herbert shook his head. He couldn't assent to this.
“You feel different, no doubt. You're a tenderfoot. You ain't used to the ways of these reptiles. You haven't seen what I have,” answered Holden.
“What have you seen?” asked Herbert, judging correctly that Holden referred to some special experience.
“I'll tell you. You see, I'm an old settler in this Western country. I've traveled pretty much all over the region beyond the Rockies, and I've seen a good deal of the red men. I know their ways as well as any man. Well, I was trampin' once in Montany, when, one afternoon, I and my pard—he was prospectin'—came to a clearin', and there we saw a sight that made us all feel sick. It was the smokin' ruins of a log cabin, which them devils had set on fire. But that wasn't what I referred to. Alongside there lay six dead bodies—the man, his wife, two boys, somewhere near your age, a little girl, of maybe ten, and a baby—all butchered by them savages, layin'—in the hunter's vernacular—in their gore. It was easy to see how they'd killed the baby, by his broken skull. They had seized the poor thing by the feet, and swung him against the side of the house, dashin' out his brains.”
Herbert shuddered, and felt sick, as the picture of the ruined home and the wretched family rose before his imagination.
“It was Indians that did it, of course,” proceeded Holden. “They're born savage, and such things come natural to them.”
“Are there no good Indians?” asked the boy.
“There may be,” answered Jack Holden, doubtfully, “though I haven't seen many. They're as scarce as plums in a boardin' house puddin', I reckon.”
I present this as Jack Holden's view, not mine. He had the prejudices of the frontier, and frontiersmen are severe judges of their Indian neighbors. They usually look at but one side of the picture, and are not apt to take into consideration the wrongs which the Indians have undeniably received. There is another extreme, however, and the sentimentalists who deplore Indian wrongs, and represent them as a brave, suffering and oppressed people, are quite as far away from a just view of the Indian question.
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