Good Indian by B. M. Bower (best beach reads of all time .txt) 📗

Good Indian spoke briefly with the good-looking young squaw, who had a shy glance for him when he came up; afterward he took hold of his hat by the brim, and ducked through the low opening of a wikiup which she smilingly pointed out to him.

“Howdy, Peppajee? How you foot?” he asked, when his unaccustomed eyes discerned the old fellow lying back against the farther wall.

“Huh! Him heap sick all time.” Having his injury thus brought afresh to his notice, Peppajee reached down with his hands, and moved the foot carefully to a new position.

“Last night,” Good Indian began without that ceremony of long waiting which is a part of Indian etiquette, “much men come to Hart ranch. Eight.” He held up his two outspread hands, with the thumbs tucked inside his palms. “Come in dark, no seeum till sun come back. Makeum camp. One man put sticks in ground, say that part belong him. Twenty acres.” He flung up his hands, lowered them, and immediately raised them again. “Eight men do that all same. Have guns, grub, blankets—stop there all time. Say they wash gold. Say that ranch have much gold, stake placer claims. Baumberger”—he saw Peppajee's eyelids draw together—“tell men to go away. Tell Peaceful he fight those men—in court. You sabe. Ask Great Father to tell those men they go away, no wash gold on ranch.” He waited.

There is no hurrying the speech of an Indian. Peppajee smoked stolidly, his eyes half closed and blinking sleepily. The veneer of white men's ways dropped from him when he entered his own wikiup, and he would not speak quickly.

“Las' night—mebbyso yo' watchum?” he asked, as one who holds his judgment in abeyance.

“I heap fool. I no watch. I let those men come while I think of—a girl. My eyes sleep.” Good Indian was too proud to parry, too bitter with himself to deny. He had not said the thing before, even to himself, but it was in his heart to hate his love, because it had cost this catastrophe to his friends.

“Kay bueno.” Peppajee's voice was harsh. But after a time he spoke more sympathetically. “Yo' no watchum. Yo' let heap trouble come. This day yo' heart bad, mebbyso. This day yo' no thinkum squaw all time. Mebbyso yo' thinkum fight, no sabe how yo' fight.”

Grant nodded silently. It would seem that Peppajee understood, even though his speech was halting. At that moment much of the unfounded prejudice, which had been for a few days set aside because of bigger things, died within him. He had disliked Peppajee as a pompous egotist among his kind. His latent antagonism against all Indians because they were unwelcomely his blood relatives had crystallized here and there against; certain individuals of the tribe. Old Hagar he hated coldly. Peppajee's staginess irritated him. In his youthful arrogance he had not troubled to see the real man of mettle under that dingy green blanket. Now he looked at Peppajee with a startled sense that he had never known him at all, and that Peppajee was not only a grimy Indian—he was also a man.

“Me no sabe one thing. One otha thing me sabe. Yo' no b'lieve Baumberga one frien'. Him all same snake. Them mens come, Baumberga tellum come all time. All time him try for foolum Peaceful. Yo' look out. Yo' no sleepum mo'. All time yo' watchum.”

“I come here,” said Good Indian; “I think you mebbyso hear talk, you tell me. My heart heap sad, I let this trouble come. I want to kill that trouble. Mebbyso make my friends laugh, be heap glad those men no stealum ranch. You hear talk, mebbyso you tell me now.”

Peppajee smoked imperturbably what time his dignity demanded. At length he took the pipe from his mouth, stretched out his arm toward Hartley, and spoke in his sonorous tone, calculated to add weight to his words.

“Yo' go speakum Squaw-talk-far-off,” he commanded. “All time makum talk—talk—” He drummed with his fingers upon his left forearm. “Mebbyso heap sabe. Heap sabe Baumberga kay bueno. He thinkum sabe stealum ranch. All time heap talk come Man-that-coughs, come all same Baumberga. Heap smart, dat squaw.” A smile laid its faint light upon his grim old lips, and was gone. “Thinkum yo' heap bueno, dat squaw. All time glad for talkum yo'. Yo' go.”

Good Indian stood up, his head bent to avoid scraping his hat against the sloping roof of the wikiup.

“You no hear more talk all time you watch?” he asked, passing over Miss Georgie's possible aid or interest in the affair.

“Much talkum—no can hear. All time them damn' Baumberga shut door—no talkum loud. All time Baumberga walkum in dark. Walkum where apples grow, walkum grass, walkum all dat ranch all time. All time me heap watchum. Snake come, bitum foot—no can watchum mo'. Dat time, much mens come. Yo' sabe. Baumberga all time talkum, him heap frien' Peacefu'—heap snake all time. Speakum two tongue Yo' no b'lievum. All time heap big liar, him. Yo' go, speakum Squaw-talk-far-off. Bueno, dat squaw. Heap smart, all same mans. Yo' go. Pikeway.” He settled back with a gesture of finality, and so Good Indian left him.

Old Hagar shrilled maledictions after him when he passed through the littered camp on his way