Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 648 Are white people invincible?!

The words of the ox are like a stone pressing on everyone's heart, but everyone reacts differently.

Morgan was a little embarrassed. He subconsciously picked up his glass and took a sip, looking away, but he didn't think the white man had done anything wrong.

The Morgan family's railroad traversed the continent, crossing countless Native American lands, and experiencing numerous conflicts and even killings along the way.

But so what? Those lands were originally wilderness, with nothing but bison and the occasional passing hunter.

Railways brought civilization, towns, factories, and schools. This is the best use of land.

But he didn't refute it. He knew that he wasn't the main character in this conversation; the stage belonged to Lionel and the old chief.

"Buffalo Bill" didn't have so many concerns. He impatiently shifted his posture, and the chair creaked.

"That same old rhetoric again," he thought to himself with a sneer. "Every Native American says those things, as if the white people owe them something."

The truth is, the winner takes all, and the loser accepts their fate. That's the rule of the West. The fact that the sitting bull can stand here is due to the benevolence of the white people and the curiosity of the audience.

If it weren't for his own theater troupe taking him in, he would still be starving on the reserve!

He just wanted the old man to leave as soon as possible. He'd finally managed to get young Morgan involved; he needed to seize the opportunity to get down to business—

Securing investment will allow us to build a super-sized theater and turn "Wild West" into a truly big business!
This "Wild West" theater not only offers performances but also allows you to experience authentic Western life, from being a cowboy and a bounty hunter to visiting prostitutes!
He certainly didn't know that if he actually presented this plan, the person most interested here would most likely not be Morgan Jr....

But just as "Buffalo Bill" was about to speak, Lionel interrupted him.

Lionel's voice was calm: "Do you want me to empathize with you? Or do you want me to join you in condemning the barbarity of white people?"

I imagine you're willing to communicate with me not just to gain such cheap sympathy.

Upon hearing this, Jumping Fox's expression immediately changed. He nervously looked at Sitting Bull, then at Lionel, his mouth opening and closing, but he dared not translate.

How could you say such things to the chief? This is questioning the chief! It's offensive!
Looking at the expression on the leaping fox's face, the sitting bull spoke a few words in Lakota, its tone calm, as if it were asking something.

Jumping Fox took a deep breath and turned to Lionel: "The chief instructed me to translate your words to him truthfully. Not a single word can be omitted."

Then he turned to the bull and translated Lionel's words verbatim into Lakota, his voice trembling as if he were doing something very dangerous.

After listening, Zuo Niu fell silent. For a long time, the only sounds coming from outside could be heard inside the tent.

Jumping Fox watched the chief nervously, Buffalo Bill frowned as he watched this conversation that he couldn't understand at all, while Little Morgan secretly observed Lionel's expression.

Finally, the cow spoke. He spoke slowly, as if carefully choosing each word.

After hearing this, the tension on Jumping Fox's face disappeared, replaced by a strange expression—a mixture of surprise and relief.

He turned to Lionel: “The chief said, you say you are not a prophet, but you are wiser and more honest than most tribal prophets I have ever met.”

Your words are sharper than the finest knife, and you're so young. When I was your age, I was more impulsive than a bison.

Lionel gave a slight bow in greeting.

Sitting Bull asked another question, which Jumping Fox translated: "The chief wants to ask, are there many prophets like you among the white people?"

Lionel thought for a moment and replied seriously, "If 'making a living by telling stories' is the standard for a prophet, then there are many prophets among white people."

I'm not the most famous one, nor the youngest, nor the smartest.

The fox translated the words. After listening, the cow nodded slowly, then sighed, and began its long narration, as if recalling the past.

Jump Fox translates sentence by sentence—

"When I first fought against white people, I thought we couldn't beat them because we only had bows and arrows and spears, while they had guns and bullets."

"Later, we also got our hands on guns and bullets. Our tribe's hunters all grew up hunting from childhood, and when it comes to marksmanship, the white men were no match for them."

I thought we'd finally win this time. But we still lost. Land continues to be lost every day, and the bison population continues to dwindle.

“I think it must be because of strategy. White people are cunning; they set traps and use tricks. We just need to be smarter than them to win.”

"Later, Crazy Horse and I, along with the tribe, used strategy to annihilate the whites' most powerful cavalry brigade and even killed their most famous general."

"At that time, I thought that the white people would realize how powerful we were and would stop and negotiate with us."

The cow paused for a moment, a pained expression on its face.

"But no. More white people came instead. More soldiers, more railroads, more settlers."

The land was lost, the bison were gone, the mad horse was killed by the white men, and the women and children starved to death.

He looked up at Lionel.

"Today I understand, what we really lack are people like you. White people have so many prophets who know how to tell stories, and you can make up all sorts of stories—"

Some stories made white people feel that they were born to rule this land, some stories made white people feel that killing us was justified, and some stories made white people feel that we didn't deserve to live at all..."

"And the Su tribe, I am the only one."

He stared into Lionel's eyes and asked, "Do you know why I chose to surrender?"

Lionel shook his head.

"When I came back from Canada, I took your train. That thing runs faster than the fastest horse, carrying hundreds of people, running non-stop from morning till night."

I saw your city, and I saw more people crammed together than I've seen in my entire life.

“At that moment, I knew that the tribe would never be able to defeat the white people. At least, that was true while I was alive. Resistance would only lead to more deaths.” Lionel nodded. He understood that feeling. This wasn't a gap that individual bravery or wisdom could bridge; it was a chasm between civilizations.

Sitting Ox asked the last question. Jumping Fox translated, his voice filled with awe and anticipation—

“White prophet, you are so young, you will see a future far beyond mine. Can you tell me, is defeat and surrender our destiny?”
Are white people truly invincible? Will they really rule every inch of land under the sky?

Lionel stared at the sitting bull and remained silent for a long time.

"Buffalo Bill" shifted impatiently. He really couldn't understand why this Frenchman was wasting so much time talking nonsense with an old Indian.

What's the point of these words? What can they change?
Lionel finally spoke, his voice calm and resolute: "White people are certainly not invincible. One day, people of other skin colors will defeat white people."

Moreover, white people themselves would lose their banner of civilization in the brutal infighting. In the story, they were defeated many times and fought amongst themselves for many years.

"Buffalo Bill" paused for a moment, then almost burst out laughing.

I see. The Frenchman was comforting the old man, saying nice things to make him feel better.

The idea that people of other skin colors defeated white people, or that white people killed each other—it's all just nonsense.

How could white people be defeated? The entire Americas are now white, Africa has been almost completely divided up, and Asia is almost devoured.

Which person of any other skin color can defeat a white person? It's true that they're fighting amongst themselves, but what does that have to do with people of other skin colors?
White people of different countries, bloodlines, and languages ​​commit suicide and kill each other, and in the end, the strongest group of white people will emerge to continue conquering the world.

Greeks, Romans, Spaniards, French, British... who knows, maybe one day it will be the Americans' turn!

Morgan raised an eyebrow slightly. He didn't say anything, but he wasn't entirely convinced either.

People of other skin colors? Those colonized natives? Those peoples who couldn't even build a steam engine? Don't be ridiculous.

But he quickly composed himself. Lionel was probably just trying to comfort the poor old man; there was no need to take it seriously.

But when the cow-sitting man heard the fox-jumping man's translation, his eyes lit up, and it was a genuine, heartfelt light.

It's like someone who has walked in darkness for too long finally seeing a glimmer of light.

He looked at Lionel, the young white prophet, who spoke with such sincerity, certainty, composure, and calmness...

That didn't sound like comforting someone at all; it sounded like stating a fact that had already been witnessed. The wisdom and experience of the Ox allowed him to see through even the best disguises.

He believed it. He believed that the young white prophet before him had indeed seen the future.

He wanted to ask something more, but he didn't. He just slowly lowered his head, remained silent for a while, then raised his head and said a few words.

The chief said he wanted to ask you if our tribe was the one that defeated the white man. But he knew he had already received too many answers today. To ask again would be disrespectful to the Great Spirit.

Lionel looked at the old man, hesitated, but ultimately said nothing.

The bull stared intently at him, its eyes filled with expectation and longing... but it kept its word and ultimately remained silent.

He stood up, nodded slightly only to Lionel, then turned and walked towards the tent entrance. Jumping Fox quickly followed and lifted the curtain for him.

"Buffalo Bill" then came to his senses. He stood up and shouted to Jumping Fox, "Take the chief back to his tent! Don't let those spectators surround him anymore!"

He turned to Morgan Jr. with a smile and said urgently, "Mr. Morgan, it's finally quiet. We can talk business now."

Just as Morgan was about to speak, Lionel stood up: "You two talk, I'm tired, I'm going back first."

He looked at Sophie. Sophie nodded and stood up as well.

Morgan paused for a moment, then quickly stood up: "Mr. Sorel, let me see you out."

“No need, you and Mr. Cody should talk business.” Lionel waved his hand.

But Morgan had already picked up his hat and coat: "We can talk another day. I came here with you to see the show anyway."

He turned to "Buffalo Bill" and smiled politely: "Mr. Cody, I'm sorry, let's reschedule for another day. Mr. Sorel is indeed tired today."

"Buffalo Bill's" smile froze. He wanted to persuade him to stay, but didn't know what to say. For Morgan Jr., spending time with Sorel was far more important than discussing business with him.

He could only manage a forced smile: "Of course, of course. Well... another day. I'll be waiting for Mr. Morgan anytime."

Morgan nodded and followed Lionel and Sophie out of the tent.

Only "Buffalo Bill" remained in the tent. He watched the swaying curtain, his smile gradually fading, replaced by resentment.

Why would the Morgan family's son fawn over a French writer who only knows how to write stories?

I've worked so hard to prepare for this for so long, and finally managed to get Morgan to come, and now it's all been ruined.

But what can he do? His surname is Morgan—he's just a circus owner.

If it weren't for the fact that young Morgan was still young and enjoyed being around people, I wouldn't even have had the chance to get to know him.

He kicked the chair leg hard, and the chair tipped over to the ground.

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When Lionel and Sophie returned to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, night had fallen, and the dim yellow gas streetlights began to illuminate the streets.

As soon as the two entered the hall, a young man rushed over, ignoring the security guards' attempts to stop him: "Mr. Sorel, please take a look at my invention. Just give me three minutes, just three minutes..."

(End of this chapter)