"William Tenn - Eastward Ho!" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tenn William)

might fear at-tackтАФnot from the north where there was only the United States of America.
But if that were so, who in the world could they be defending against? Across the Delaware to the
south there was nothing but more Seminole. Was it possibleтАФwas it possible that the Seminole had at
last fallen to fighting among themselves?
Or was it possible that Sam Rutherford had been right? Fantastic. Buffalo robes in Trenton! There
should be no buffalo robes closer than a hundred miles westward, in Harrisburg.
But when they turned onto State Street, Jerry bit his lip in chagrin. Sam had seen correctly, which
made him one up.
Scattered over the wide lawn of the gutted state capitol were dozens of wigwams. And the tall, dark
men who sat impassively, or strode proudly among the wigwams, all wore buffalo robes. There was no
need even to associate the paint on their faces with a remembered lecture in political science: these were
Sioux.
So the information that had come drifting up to the government about the iden-tity of the invader was
totally inaccurateтАФas usual. Well, you couldn't expect com-munication miracles over this long a distance.
But that inaccuracy made things difficult. It might invalidate his commission, for one thing: his commission
was addressed directly to Osceola VII, Ruler of All the Seminoles. And if Sam Ruther-ford thought this
gave him a right to preen himselfтАФ
He looked back dangerously. No, Sam would give no trouble. Sam knew better than to dare an
I-told-you-so. At his leader's look, the son of the Undersecretary of State dropped his eyes
groundwards in immediate humility.
Satisfied, Jerry searched his memory for relevant data on recent political relation-ships with the
Sioux. He couldn't recall muchтАФjust the provisions of the last two or three treaties. It would have to do.
He drew up before an important-looking warrior and carefully dismounted. You might get away with
talking to a Seminole while mounted, but not the Sioux. The Sioux were very tender on matters of
protocol with white men.
"We come in peace," he said to the warrior standing as impassively straight as the spear he held, as
stiff and hard as the rifle on his back. "We come with a message of importance and many gifts to your
chief. We come from New York, the home of our chief." He thought a moment, then added: "You know,
the Great White Father?"
Immediately, he was sorry for the addition. The warrior chuckled briefly; his eyes lit up with a
lightning-stroke of mirth. Then his face was expressionless again, and serenely dignified as befitted a man
who had counted coup many times.
"Yes," he said. "I have heard of him. Who has not heard of the wealth and power and far dominions
of the Great White Father? Come. I will take you to our chief. Walk behind me, white man."
Jerry motioned Sam Rutherford to wait.
At the entrance to a large, expensively decorated tent, the Indian stood aside and casually indicated
that Jerry should enter.
It was dim inside, but the illumination was rich enough to take Jerry's breath away. Oil lamps! Three
of them! These people lived well.
A century ago, before the whole world had gone smash in the last big war, his people had owned
plenty of oil lamps themselves. Better than oil lamps, perhaps, if one could believe the stories the
engineers told around the evening fires. Such stories were pleas-ant to hear, but they were glories of the
distant past. Like the stories of overflowing granaries and chock-full supermarkets, they made you proud
of the history of your people, but they did nothing for you now. They made your mouth water, but they
didn't feed you.
The Indians whose tribal organization had been the first to adjust to the new con-ditions, in the
all-important present, the Indians had the granaries, the Indians had the oil lamps. And the Indians...
There were two nervous white men serving food to the group squatting on the floor. There was an
old man, the chief, with a carved, chunky body. Three warriors, one of them surprisingly young for
council. And a middle-aged Negro, wearing the same bound-on rags as Franklin, except that they