America 1883: The Western Homeland

Chapter 32 An Unexpected Encounter with the Native Americans

Tom remained tense, but he also lowered the gun barrel slightly.

"Who are you?" the old man asked, his voice hoarse but carrying an undeniable authority.

What made Tom's pupils shrink even more was that the old Native American was speaking English!

"That's what I should be asking!" Tom's voice was cold and hard, the gun muzzle low but his finger still on the trigger. "Why do your men shoot me the moment they see me?"

The old man's cloudy yet sharp eyes swept over Tom, and he slowly shook his head, but his withered finger suddenly pointed to the side of Tom: "Not to you, child. It's to it."

it?

Tom looked in the direction of the finger and saw a loach.

The stupid mule seemed to only then realize that something was wrong. Its large, glassy eyes blinked blankly, and it still had half a blade of grass in its mouth.

"It's my partner!" Tom's voice was resolute, carrying an unyielding ruthlessness. "Kill it? That's attacking me! If you want to mess with me, ask the gun in my hand first!"

These words were like pouring a bucket of cold water into boiling oil!

Anger instantly surged on the faces of the Native American warriors, their eyes growing even more malevolent, their knuckles clenching their weapons until they turned white. Even the old man frowned slightly.

The loach, whose name was mentioned, trembled all over!

It suddenly turned its huge head, and for the first time, Tom's figure was clearly reflected in its large, glassy eyes, which were filled with pure, unbelievable shock!

next second!

"Ugh~!" The loach let out a low, trembling sound, almost a sob, and rubbed its huge head against Tom's arm without a care, affectionately and dependently, with a hint of grievance after surviving a disaster.

Tom: "..."

His lips twitched violently, barely suppressing the urge to shove this mud-covered idiot who was ruining the atmosphere at this crucial moment! So damn embarrassing!

Perhaps intimidated by Tom's menacing gaze, the mudskipper rubbed against the ground a couple of times before quickly and reluctantly turning its gaze to the still aloof wild mare in the distance.

It was as if the life-or-death moment just now was just a minor episode!

"Then you'd better keep your mule in check, kid," the old Indian man said, his withered fingers poking precisely at the proud, wild mare. "Don't let it bother anyone else."

"other people?"

Tom was taken aback and followed the old man's gaze. The mare, who seemed to be the embodiment of the wilderness, was flicking her spiky mane.

He understood instantly!

This horse has connections with these Native Americans!

"She's taken? Fine!" Tom growled at Mudfish, annoyed. "Did you hear that, you idiot! She's taken! Stop pestering her like a rabid stray dog!"

But what happened next almost made Tom's jaw drop: that rascal Mudskipper gave the wild mare a sly look with his glassy eyes, then kicked off and took a few more steps forward!

That shameless, pig-like attitude was exactly like a tough nut to crack in the wilderness!

"Look, old man, you've seen it too."

Tom shrugged, his face clearly saying, "This guy's hopeless."

"I've talked it out until my lips are sore, but it won't listen; it's completely impervious to reason!"

The old Indian man witnessed the entire confrontation between Tom and the loach.

A faint line on his face, etched with the wrinkles of time, twitched slightly: "It's a good mule, with a stubborn streak."

Tom: "..."

Is that considered a compliment?

He could only cough dryly, taking this strange "praise" as an excuse.

The old man gazed at the wild mare one last time, then said nothing more, simply tapping the ground lightly with his gleaming wooden cane.

As if receiving a silent command, the Native American warriors behind them quietly disappeared into the shadows of the wilderness, preparing to leave.

"Wait! Old man!" Tom shouted as the figure in the deerskin robe was about to disappear on the horizon. "Where is this place? Which way to Fort Worth...?"

The old man stopped and turned around.

The setting sun cast a long shadow behind him.

Tom could sense that the kindness from the elder in the wilderness had not dissipated.

"Fort Worth?" The old man's white eyebrows furrowed, his sharp gaze sweeping over Tom's young face and thin frame. "You, alone?"

"Just me and this stubborn mule." Tom patted the cold barrel of the Winchester gun at his waist.

"This wilderness is too dangerous for you!" The old man's warning was low and direct, carrying the chill of the desert night wind.

Tom's anger flared up again, and he glared fiercely at Mudfish, who was still fawning over the wild mare: "It's all because of this morbidly stupid mule! He can't resist other people's mares, he shamelessly follows them around, causing me to get separated from my family and end up stuck in this godforsaken place!"

The old man certainly knew who the "culprit" was.

But looking at the boy in front of him who dared to venture into the wilderness alone for a mule, stubbornly refusing to back down, a trace of almost imperceptible admiration finally flashed in his turbid eyes that had seen through the vicissitudes of life.

He didn't say anything more, bent down and picked up half a piece of charred charcoal from the ashes at his feet, and then took out a small piece of soft, light-colored leather with an earthy smell from his pocket.

The charcoal sticks moved swiftly across the leather, outlining simplified symbols of rivers, hills, and forks in the road.

A moment later, a leather map, still bearing the scent of the wilderness, was handed to Tom.

"Keep it safe."

Tom accepted the rough but invaluable guide, its symbols as simple as a child's scribbles.

He felt a chill run down his spine. If the old man hadn't pointed out those key landmarks earlier, outsiders would have been completely clueless!

"Thanks, sir!" Tom solemnly stuffed Pitot into his breast pocket, remembering this favor.

The old man nodded slightly, then, without lingering, led his people, like drops of water merging into the desert, and disappeared into the undulating reddish-brown horizon.

Tom pulled out the Pitu and examined it closely, his brow furrowing deeply: "Deep in the desert? Their hideout is over there?"

Something's not right! Could there be an Indian reservation here?

What are they up to, venturing into this desolate, godforsaken place in groups?

Questions hovered overhead like vultures.

But Tom didn't investigate further!

The most important thing right now is to wake up this lust-obsessed fool next to me!

He turned his head and was furious. That mudskipper was having a great time, wagging its tail like a windmill, circling around the wild mare, practically humming a tune!

"You mudfish! You fucking get back here right now!"

Tom's roar echoed across the open field, startling several lizards into flight.

The appearance of that group of Native Americans was like a bucket of cold water poured over Tom, waking him up!

This place is fraught with danger; we must not be careless!

He immediately held his breath and focused his mind, his vision suddenly spreading out in all directions like a net being cast!

Scorpions wag their tails beneath the sand, rattlesnakes coil in the crevices of rocks—every subtle movement in the wilderness is clearly reflected back.

Just when Tom thought the wild mare was finally about to reach its lair.

The wild mare suddenly froze in place!

Its head was held high, and its rock-like muscles instantly tensed like a bowstring. Its amber eyes flashed with a sharp light, locking onto a certain spot in the distance, exuding the deadly vigilance of a top predator!

There's an ambush!