OCR Text |
Show 172 FORTY YEARS AMONG THE INDIANS. the Indians would kill me. He said he would go and see if they would not wait three days more, so that I could let him have the one on hand. I agreed. He re-turned in a few hours and said it was all right. Some might ask, " Could you believe him?" I answer, most certainly. I sold the saddle starting on another, which had the same history, thus continuing for some time until I began to feel quite at home, making saddles and selling them for a good price, with the prospect of being killed every three days. There is an old saying that one can get used to almost anything except getting killed more than once. Tabby often passed by where I could see him, but would never look towards me. I believed that in his heart he was my friend, for I was his. This looked a little strange, but, understanding Indian character so well, I knew it would not do for me to speak first. One day Tabby stepped into my shop accompanied by his young squaw. I had my work- bench across the room so that I faced the door, all my stuff behind and protected by the bench. I kept very busy, scarcely speaking to anyone coming in. Simply selling saddles under the rule mentioned. He came up to the bench in haughty Indian style, never offering to speak. I felt almost like laughing for I knew he was playing a part, and I determined to beat him if possible, so I never even looked up from my work. Soon he laid a new butcher knife down on the bench without speaking a word. I took the knife and made a nice scabbard for it, and laid it on the bench before him. He then took a pair of stirrups from his squaw and laid them on the bench. I had a pair of stirrup- leathers made and hanging up. I took them and put them on the stirrups and laid them |