chiefs. It is they who shall be given
back the ways of their fathers, that they may become a great Orbiwah
nation once more. I have spoken!"

* * * * *

"Look at these braves," I said. All of us were standing now. "Of all
the Orbiwah in this world it is such as these who could hope to
survive under the conditions you wish to establish. The Orbiwah _you_
describe would starve amid a thousand buffalo, they would fall from
their horses, they would flee in battle. Take away the protection of
the white chiefs and they would die."

The chief of the tribe of Kornesh curled his lips in a sneer. "The
protection given by the white chiefs is the protection of death. They
do not care what happens to the Orbiwah. I have seen it with my own
eyes."

"You're right," I said promptly. "The Orbiwah has been badly treated
too long. I shall return to the Great White Chief and tell him this:
unless the life of the Orbiwah is made good, unless he has fine
shelter, plenty of food, warm clothes for his back and the right to be
as other men, you will return and force the white man from this land.
It will take much time, but it shall come to pass. _I_ have spoken."

Doubt flickered in his eyes. "Perhaps your words are empty. How do I
know they are true?"

"When twenty summers have passed," I said, "come back again. Look upon
the Orbiwah and learn if they still suffer want and privation. If
their life is not better for what has happened today, then you need
never trust the white man again."

For a long moment he stood stiff as steel, staring into my eyes. Then
his hand shot up, palm out, in a gesture of farewell, and he turned
and disappeared into the spaceship.

* * * * *

I got a barrage of questions then. I held up a hand to quiet my
friends. "Some other time, gentlemen. I've got to get to Washington
just as fast as a jet plane can get me there."

"If it's that urgent," Luke said, "call him on the phone and reverse
the charges."

I scowled at him. "Call who?"

"The President. Isn't he the reason you're in such a hurry?"

"No! I've got to get to bed."

"Bed? If you're that tired--"

"Who said anything about being tired?" I demanded. "Being tired has
nothing to do with it."

"Then what--"

"It seems," I said, "there's a black lace nightgown...."

* * * * *

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Call Him Savage, by John