Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. CALL HIM SAVAGE BY JOHN POLLARD Illustrator: Sanford Kossin _Around the 15th of March each year, folks start saying, "Give the country back to the Indians!" Well, that's what we want to talk to you about._ * * * * * I didn't even hear her come in. What with the Sioux rising against the white settlement at the fork of the Platte, the attack being set for dawn, and Chief Spotted Horse's impassioned speech to his braves, I wouldn't have heard anything under a ninety-seven-decibel war whoop. Soft lips brushed the back of my neck and she said something. "That's fine," I said. "_Sam!_" I heard _that_, all right. I looked up from the typewriter. "Hey, that's a _nice_ nightgown!" "I said I think I'm getting a cold." "Well--with a nightgown like that...." "Silly!" Her smile would have corrupted a bishop. "You coming to bed? It's almost midnight." "Soon's I finish writing this chapter. Best thing I've ever done." "More Indians?" I reached for a cigarette. "Sure, more Indians. What else would one of the country's leading authorities on the original Americans be writing about? I hate to keep harping on the same subject, my sweet, but the dough from my last book bought you that mink stole you keep dangling in front of your girl friends." "If you make so much money at it, why are you still a reporter?" "I _like_ being a reporter." "What about _me_? Between reporting and Indians my love life is beginning to wither on the vine. You should have married a squaw." "Who says I didn't?" I gave her my best leer and reached out an exploring hand. She blushed and backed away, laughing. "Nothing doing, Sam Quinlan! You want me I'll be in bed." "Hey-hey!" She gave me a quick kiss, evaded my grasp and disappeared into the bedroom. I finished lighting the cigarette, typed a few more lines. But my working mood was gone, a casualty of a black lace nightgown. Finally I got up from the desk and snapped on the radio and, while it warmed up, strolled over to the living room window. * * * * *