He knew where Riolama
was, although he had never been there: it was so far. Why did I
go to Riolama? It was a bad place. There were Indians there, a
few; but they were not good Indians like those of Parahuari, and
would kill a white man. HAD I gone there? Why had I gone there?
He finished at last, and it was my turn to speak, but he had
given me plenty of time, and my reply was ready. "I have heard
you," I said. "Your words are good words. They are the words of
a friend. 'I am the white man's friend,' you say; 'is he my
friend? He went away secretly, saying no word; why did he go
without speaking to his friend who had treated him well? Has he
been to my enemy Managa? Perhaps he is a friend of my enemy?
Where has he been?' I must now answer these things, saying true
words to my friend. You are an Indian, I am a white man. You do
not know all the white man's thoughts. These are the things I
wish to tell you. In the white man's country are two kinds of
men. There are the rich men, who have all that a man can
desire--houses made of stone, full of fine things, fine clothes,
fine weapons, fine ornaments; and they have horses, cattle,
sheep, dogs--everything they desire.
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