18/21 I know just how you feel about it, but I tell yeh it ain't no use to fight." Drifting Crane turned his head and gazed out on the western sky, still red with the light of the fallen sun. His face was rigid as bronze, but there was a dreaming, prophetic look in his eyes. A lump came into the settler's throat; for the first time in his life he got a glimpse of the infinite despair of the Indian. He forgot that Drifting Crane was the representative of a "vagabond race;" he saw in him, or rather _felt_ in him, something almost magnetic. He was a _man_, and a man of sorrows. |