The Light in the Forest Read Online Free

their brothers like the Indian, they wouldn’t have the work of building asecond house,” Half Arrow said. “Don’t they see the sense of this?”
    “Oh, they’re a peculiar race and no sensible man can understand them,” Little Crane answered. “Have you never noticed them on the march? What do we Indians look for? We look for game or tracks or how the Great Being made our country beautiful with trees for the forest, water for the river, and grass for the prairies. But the white man sees little of this. He looks mostly at the ground. He digs it up with his iron tool to see how black and deep it goes. Sometimes he makes a fuss of the trees. He says, look, here are walnut and hickory and cherry and white ash and locust and sugar trees. But it’s not for the trees, only because the ground is black and deep that such trees stand in. Yet if there is much white oak and beech that feed the squirrels and bear and turkey, he makes a face. He says such country is good for nothing.”
    “I’ve noticed the white men’s foolishness in the woods,” Half Arrow nodded. “When the time grows near to camp for the night, they keep their eyes half closed. They don’t look for a high and dry place but set themselves down in any wet and dirty place, just so it’s under some big trees. Theydon’t even look which way the wind blows before they make their campfire. When the smoke blows on them, they try to hit it with their hands and caps like mosquitoes.”
    “Bischik!”
True Son agreed. “And they hang their kettles right away before the blackest of the smoke has passed. They burn any kind of wood that’s handy. Green oak or cherry or walnut or chestnut that throws many sparks. You can see their blankets and clothing always have holes burned in them.”
    “All you say is true,” Little Crane declared. “But one thing they do I would not like to change. That’s the way they lie down at night. They never look up first to see if heavy dead branches hang over their heads. Some time I hope the Great Being sends a big wind to knock down the dead wood and kill them in their beds.”
    The three laughed. True Son didn’t know what he would do when Half Arrow and Little Crane weren’t there to keep him company. And now there were signs that they wouldn’t be with him long. A Mohawk from the north fell in with them that day. He said soon they would meet a large river and that Fort Pitt was on this river. The very next day it happened as he said, but the waters were swollenwith rains. They would have to wait for the flood to go down before crossing.
    Next morning when Half Arrow and Little Crane came back from the forest, they found the body of the Mohawk near camp. He had been tomahawked and scalped. Now a Delaware sheds no tears for a Mingo, and especially a Mohawk, but though dogs may fight among themselves they are one against the wolf.
    “I think white soldiers did this,” Little Crane said. “One of them made friendly talk to him in front. Another came up and tomahawked him from behind.”
    Inside of him, True Son felt bitterness for all the white soldiers. The Mohawk might be ugly, but he was an Indian. It was hard to hold in his feelings next morning when the red-haired guard said that this was the day True Son and Half Arrow must part. In a little while they would be crossing the river, and his cousin must stay on this side.
    “Why do you spit on my cousin?” True Son asked.
    “Little Crane can’t come either. We’re getting close to white people now. Some of them have suffered from the Indians and might kill him.”
    “They could kill him just as easy on this side, like they did the Mohawk.”
    “It’s the Colonel’s orders.”
    “He’s not Half Arrow’s colonel. Why does he have to obey him?”
    The guard flushed. He said nothing more. But when the column started to move toward the ford, he took his rifle and, holding it at Half Arrow’s breast, forced him out of line. True Son felt fresh hate for the