We took him up to the cave. The boy had two large bird feathers stuck in his hair. He points a stick at me and says:
“Ha! Paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?”
“He’s all right now,” says Bill, rolling up his pants and examining wounds on his legs. “We’re playing Indian. I’m Old Hank, the trapper, Red Chief’s captive. I’m going to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! That kid can kick hard.”
“Red Chief,” says I to the boy, “would you like to go home?”
“Aw, what for?” says he. “I don’t have any fun at home. I hate to go to school. I like to camp out. You won’t take me back home again, will you?”
“Not right away,” says I. “We’ll stay here in the cave a while.”
“All right!” says he. “That’ll be fine. I never had such fun in all my life.”
(MUSIC)
We went to bed about eleven o’clock. Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of terrible screams from Bill. Red Chief was sitting on Bill’s chest, with one hand holding his hair. In the other, he had a sharp knife. He was attempting to cut off the top of Bill’s head, based on what he had declared the night before.
I got the knife away from the boy. But, after that event, Bill’s spirit was broken. He lay down, but he never closed an eye again in sleep as long as that boy was with us.
“Do you think anybody will pay out money to get a little imp like that back home?” Bill asked.
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2013-11-25
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2013-11-25