But though the Indian wars in the Territory had been bloody and vindictive,they had not been protracted as in the old days.Around the country of the red man was drawn closer and more securely,day by day,the girdle of civilization.Within its constricting grasp the spirit of savagery,if not crushed,was at least subdued.Tribes naked but for their blankets,unadorned save by the tattoo,found themselves pressed close to other tribes which,already civilized,had relinquished the chase for agricultural pursuits.Primeval men,breathing this quickened atmosphere of modernity,either grew more sophisticated,or perished like wild flowers brought too near the heat.It is true the plains were still unoccupied,but they had been captured--for the railroad had come,and the buffalo had vanished.
Brick Willock and the man he had come to see were very good types of the first settlers of the new country--one a highwayman,hiding from his kind,the other a trapper by occupation,trying to keep ahead of the pursuing waves of immigration.It was the first time Lahoma had seen Bill Atkins,and as she caught sight of him before his dugout,her eyes brightened with interest.He was a tall lank man of about sixty-five,with a huge gray mustache and bushy hair of iron-gray,but without a beard.The mustache gave him an effect of exceeding fierceness,and the deeply wrinkled forehead and square chin added their testimony to his ungracious disposition.
But Lahoma was not afraid of coyotes,catamounts or mountain-lions,and she was not afraid of Bill Atkins.Her eyes brightened at the discovery that he held in his hand that which Willock had described to her as a book.Does he read?,she asked Willock,breathlessly.Does he read,Brick?