“Yes; ten thousand times, that is figgertively speakin’, as the preachers down in the settlements say. Peltries is plenty, but as is ginerally the case, the red-skins are as thick as grasshoppers, and they kept me dodgin’ round like a bull in fly time. We’ve got to send down to Fr’isco, for a lot of lamps to carry ’round at night, so as to keep from tumbling over ’em, and when we ride our hosses toward the fort, we’ve got to set a lamp on each ear to keep ’em from stepping onto ’em. I think I mashed a dozen or two of ’em, without knowing it, ’cause I mind me now that I stepped onto something, two or three times, that felt kind of soft.” “They are strange creatures, Uncle Ruff, and I can’t understand why they should hate the whites worse than they hate the rattlesnake under their feet.” “I s’pose ’cause the whites feel just as lovely toward them. You see it’s a squar’ deal all round.” “I know but I can’t see any reason in it. There was that Blackfoot to-day. He must have seen me when I climbed up on a high rock to take a look at the surrounding country, and the very minute he saw me, that very minute he went to work to get my scalp. They are a strange people.” The scarred face of Old Ruff expanded into a quaint smile, as he looked fondly down in the countenance of the lad, and listened to his words. Then, laying the long, bony finger of his right hand into the palm of his left, as if to call special attention to his utterances, he said: “Yas, younker, you’re right. I’ve hunted wild animiles, and fit Injins for a good many years, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the red-skin is a qu’ar critter, and it takes a good while afore a feller understands him. Some chaps come out here fur a few weeks, and think they’ve got the hang of things, when they don’t know no more about copper-skins, than my grandmother does about tannin’ grizzly b’ars. You know they ginerally call the Injin red, but when he gits on the war-path, he’s allers a ‘yeller.’ They believe in spooks, and when the spirit moves ’em, they move the spirits. They don’t like crooked paths, and generally take every thing straight; they are very hospitable, and often treat their captives to a hot stake. This is very touching, ’specially to the captive. They’re purty good shots, as you know yourself, Little Rifle, ’cause you’ve see’d ’em shoot the rapids; they are good on drawing a long bow, but often take an arrow view of things, and I knowed an old chief once that lived half the time upon arrow-root. Some younkers like you think an Injin is the very beau ideal of a man, as they say down in the settlements; but sence they’ve larned the use of guns, they’ve hung up the fiddle and the bow, which must harrow the feelin’s of the varmints a powerful heap. My nephew that knows how to read books, calls him ‘Lo, the poor Injin,’ and I agree with him, for ef thar’s any lower critters in all creation, I’ve never see’d ’em. Sometimes you can tame an Injin, and sometimes you can’t.