Free The Light in the Forest by Conrad Richter

their poor brains out against a tree.”
    “Is not true!” the boy cried, getting to his feet swiftly. “But is true that white Peshtank men killed Conestogo children, and Colonel Elder is captain of Peshtank men.”
    The shape of sarcasm rounding and modeling Parson Elder’s mouth slowly disintegrated. His face showed pain.
    “No one knows better than a preacher of the gospel the dark unfathomable heart of man,” he said sadly. “Sometimes even the most exemplary Christians get out of hand.”
    “Does good man like preacher get out of hand, too?” the boy asked.
    The parson gazed at him steadily.
    “No, not often,” he said. “I did what I could. As their military leader, I ordered them to disperse and go home. But they refused. Had I persisted, they would have killed my favorite horse.”
    “Better your favorite horse dead than the favorite young ones of the poor Indian,” the boy asserted.
    The Reverend Elder sat more powerful and self-restrained than Myra Butler had ever seen him.
    “It’s not only the white man who breaks thesixth commandment, Johnny,” he said humbly. “Evil and ugly things have been committed against the will of God on both sides. Eight and nine years ago I never dared preach without a pair of loaded rifles in the pulpit. The men in my congregation kept their rifles standing by their pews. It was to discourage any of your red friends peeping in the window from trying to scalp us and our children. You say your foster Indian father never harmed a white child. It may be true. But I’m sorry to tell you that I know personally the authentic cases of many white children who were killed and mutilated by Indians. In one case the head was used as a football.”
    “Is not true!” the boy cried. “I see many scalp but no children scalp in our village. My father says men are cowards who fight children.”
    Aunt Kate had stepped up quickly to stop the boy, but the parson deterred her. His face was white. Despite that, he lifted his glass to his lips with great self-control. Sipping the whiskey coolly from time to time, he talked with strong earnestness to the boy of the brotherhood of man and the duties of Christians, red and white, to each other. He asked no questions that required answer, made no provocative statements and brooked no interruption.He closed with a long fervent prayer and then dismissed the boy.
    When the latter was gone, the veteran parson wearily asked if he could have another glass.
    “Living here near the frontier, we have our own particular trials and tribulations,” he said. “This case of Johnny is not an easy one. But I don’t think we should be too discouraged. It seems fairly natural under the circumstances for the boy to act this way. He’s been in the hands of heathen for more than ten years. He’s been virtually raised by them. Their character and philosophy was above the average savage, I’m glad to say, and you can be thankful for that. Just the same they were not white people, certainly not Christians, and you’ll have to bear with their influence for a while. Ten years’ teaching takes a long time to break down. You know what Proverbs says, ‘Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it.’ John has been brought up in the way he was not intended by his Maker to go, and it will take some effort to make him depart from it. But time is on our side.”
    “What can we do, Parson?” Myra Butler asked piteously.
    “Just what you have been doing. Be gratefulthat God has given Johnny back while he’s still a youth with a pliable mind. Teach him daily. Don’t get discouraged. You see him every day and don’t notice his improvement. But I see him only on the Sabbath or once in a while when I come here, and I can see a great change in him already. Despite himself, his English is better. Already he walks and gestures less like an Indian. You can’t expect him to turn into a seraph or saint overnight. Don’t push