As he looked into the Indian's face he seemed to grow in height.

He felt behind him all the weight of the millions of westward-moving settlers; he stood the representative of an unborn State.

He took down a rifle from the wall--the magazine rifle, most modern of guns; he patted the stock, pulled the crank, throwing a shell into view.
"You know this thing, chief ?" The Indian nodded slightly.
"Well, I'll go when--this--is--empty." "But my young men are many." "So are the white men--my brothers." The chief's head dropped forward.

Wilson, ashamed of his boasting, put the rifle back on the wall.
"I'm not here to fight.

You can kill me any time.