Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Amazing Stories March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
CALL HIM SAVAGE
BY JOHN POLLARD
Illustrator: Sanford Kossin
Around the 15th of March each year, folks start saying,"Give the country back to the Indians!" Well, that's what wewant to talk to you about.
didn't even hear her come in. What with the Sioux rising against thewhite settlement at the fork of the Platte, the attack being set fordawn, and Chief Spotted Horse's impassioned speech to his braves, Iwouldn't have heard anything under a ninety-seven-decibel war whoop.
Soft lips brushed the back of my neck and she said something.
"That's fine," I said.
"Sam!"
I heard that, all right. I looked up from the typewriter. "Hey,that's a nice nightgown!"
"I said I think I'm getting a cold."
"Well—with a nightgown like that...."
"Silly!" Her smile would have corrupted a bishop. "You coming to bed?It's almost midnight."
"Soon's I finish writing this chapter. Best thing I've ever done."
"More Indians?"
I reached for a cigarette. "Sure, more Indians. What else would one ofthe country's leading authorities on the original Americans be writingabout? I hate to keep harping on the same subject, my sweet, but thedough from my last book bought you that mink stole you keep danglingin front of your girl friends."
"If you make so much money at it, why are you still a reporter?"
"I like being a reporter."
"What about me? Between reporting and Indians my love life isbeginning to wither on the vine. You should have married a squaw."
"Who says I didn't?" I gave her my best leer and reached out anexploring hand. She blushed and backed away, laughing. "Nothing doing,Sam Quinlan! You want me I'll be in bed."
"Hey-hey!"
She gave me a quick kiss, evaded my grasp and disappeared into thebedroom. I finished lighting the cigarette, typed a few more lines.But my working mood was gone, a casualty of a black lace nightgown.Finally I got up from the desk and snapped on the radio and, whileit warmed up, strolled over to the living room window.
At this hour Washington was largely in bed. Away over to the east Icould see the dim glow of lights marking the Mall, with the Capitoldome beyond that. Now that communism was dead, buried and unmourned inRussia and her satellites, with peace and prosperity booming from Iowato Iran, even the President would be sleeping like a baby. Any day nowI would be down to covering PTA meetings for the Herald-Telegram.That was okay with me; my big interest was "Saga of the Sioux"—thethird in the series of books I was writing on the history of theAmerican Indian.
An early autumn breeze crawled in at the open window and moved theline of smoke from my cigarette. A quiet serene night, with the faintsmell of burned leaves in the air and the promise of a cool, sunny,peaceful tomo