There was no answer from the next room. “He can not hear,” the major said. “And you are quite sure that you love a girl?” “I am sure.” “And,” the major looked at him quickly, “that you are not corrupt?” “I don’t know what you mean, corrupt.” “All right,” the major said. “You needn’t be superior.” Pinin looked at the floor. The major looked at his brown face, down and up him, and at his hands. Then he went on, not smiling, “And you don’t really want—” the major paused. Pinin looked at the floor. “That your great desire isn’t really—” Pinin looked at the floor. The major leaned his head back on the rucksack and smiled. He was really relieved: life in the army was too complicated. “You’re a good boy,” he said. “You’re a good boy, Pinin. But don’t be superior and be careful some one else doesn’t come along and take you.” Pinin stood still beside the bunk. “Don’t be afraid,” the major said. His hands were folded on the blankets. “I won’t touch you. You can go back to your platoon if you like. But you had better stay on as my servant. You’ve less chance of being killed.” “Do you want anything of me, signor maggiore?” “No,” the major said. “Go on and get on with whatever you were doing. Leave the door open when you go out.” Pinin went out, leaving the door open. The adjutant looked up at him as he walked awkwardly across the room and out the door. Pinin was flushed and moved differently than he had moved when he brought in the wood for the fire. The adjutant looked after him and smiled. Pinin came in with more wood for the stove. The major, lying on his bunk, looking at his cloth-covered helmet and his snow-glasses that hung from a nail on the wall, heard him walk across the floor. The little devil, he thought, I wonder if he lied to me. TEN INDIANS AFTER one Fourth of July, Nick, driving home late from town in the big wagon with Joe Garner and his family, passed nine drunken Indians along the road. He remembered there were nine because Joe Garner, driving along in the dusk, pulled up the horses, jumped down into the road and dragged an Indian out of the wheel rut. The Indian had been asleep, face down in the sand. Joe dragged him into the bushes and got back up on the wagon-box. “That makes nine of them,” Joe said, “just between here and the edge of town.” “Them Indians,” said Mrs. Garner. Nick was on the back seat with the two Garner boys. He was looking out from the back seat to see the Indian where Joe had dragged him alongside of the road. “Was it Billy Tabeshaw?” Carl asked. “No.” “His pants looked mighty like Billy.” “All Indians wear the same kind of pants.” “I didn’t see him at all,” Frank said. “Pa was down into the road and back up again before I seen a thing. I thought he was killing a snake.” “Plenty of Indians’ll kill snakes to-night, I guess,” Joe Garner said. “Them Indians,” said Mrs. Garner.