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The Spirit of the Border-Part13_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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Chapter XI.

The, sultry, drowsy, summer days passed with no untoward event to mar their



slumbering tranquillity. Life for the newcomers to the Village of Peace

brought a content, the like of which they had never dreamed of. Mr. Wells at



once began active work among the Indians, preaching to them through an

interpreter; Nell and Kate, in hours apart from household duties, busied



themselves brightening their new abode, and Jim entered upon the task of

acquainting himself with the modes and habits of the redmen. Truly, the young



people might have found perfect happiness in this new and novel life, if only

Joe had returned. His disappearance and subsequentabsence furnished a theme



for many talks and many a quiet hour of dreamysadness. The fascination of

his personality had been so impelling that long after it was withdrawn a charm



lingered around everything which reminded them of him; a subtle and sweet

memory, with perverse and half bitter persistence, returned hauntingly. No



trace of Joe had been seen by any of the friendly Indian runners. He was gone

into the mazes of deep-shadowed forests, where to hunt for him would be like



striving to trail the flight of a swallow. Two of those he had left behind

always remembered him, and in their thoughts followed him in his wanderings.



Jim settled down to his study of Indians with single-heartedness of purpose.

He spent part of every morning with the interpreters, with whose assistance he



rapidly acquired the Delaware language. He went freely among the Indians,

endeavoring to win their good-will. There were always fifty to an hundred



visiting Indians at the village; sometimes, when the missionaries had

advertised a special meeting, there were assembled in the shady maple grove as



many as five hundred savages. Jim had, therefore, opportunities to practice

his offices of friendliness.



Fortunately for him, he at once succeeded in establishing himself in the good

graces of Glickhican, the converted Delaware chief. The wise old Indian was of



inestimable value to Jim. Early in their quaintance" target="_blank" title="n.相识；熟人，相识的人">acquaintance he evinced an earnest

regard for the young minister, and talked with him for hours.



From Glickhican Jim learned the real nature of the redmen. The Indian's love

of freedom and honor, his hatred of subjection and deceit, as explained by the



good old man, recalled to Jim Colonel Zane's estimate of the savage character.

Surely, as the colonel had said, the Indians had reason for their hatred of



the pioneers. Truly, they were a blighted race.

Seldom had the rights of the redmen been thought of. The settler pushed



onward, plodding, as it were, behind his plow with a rifle. He regarded the

Indian as little better than a beast; he was easier to kill than to tame. How



little the settler knew the proud independence, the wisdom, the stainless

chastity of honor, which belonged so truly to many Indian chiefs!



The redmen were driven like hounded deer into the untrodden wilds. From

freemen of the forests, from owners of the great boundless plains, they passed



to stern, enduring fugitives on their own lands. Small wonder that they became

cruel where once they had been gentle! Stratagem and cunning, the night



assault, the daylightambush took the place of their one-time open warfare.

Their chivalrous courage, that sublimeinheritance from ancestors who had



never known the paleface foe, degenerated into a savage ferocity.

Interesting as was this history to Jim, he cared more for Glickhican's rich



portrayal of the redmen's domestic life, for the beautiful poetry of his

tradition and legends. He heard with delight the exquisite fanciful Indian



lore. From these romantic legends, beautiful poems, and marvelous myths he

hoped to get ideas of the Indian's religion. Sweet and simple as childless



dreams were these quaint tales--tales of how the woodland fairies dwelt in

fern-carpeted dells; how at sunrise they came out to kiss open the flowers;



how the forest walks were spirit-haunted paths; how the leaves whispered

poetry to the winds; how the rocks harbored Indian gods and masters who



watched over their chosen ones.

Glickhican wound up his long discourses by declaring he had never lied in the






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