Until Duff was out of view John held his rifle ready for immediate use. As he turned from watching the retreating figure of the wretch, his gaze fell upon the outstretched form of the dead Indian—the staring, lustreless eyes and powder-burned, blood-stained body presenting a horrid sight. Near by the brush and stones were thrown aside and the bones of Ichabod Nesbit were scattered all about.
135

“I see it all now,” came slowly and solemnly from the boy’s lips. “It is plain as anything ever was! It was the letter they wanted; and to think that those miserable cut-throats made poor Black Eagle come all this distance to show them where Ichabod Nesbit lay, only to shoot him down in such a manner, when they didn’t find it! What was it that Duff was saying, too? Ree will want to know every word: ‘It was the Quaker, blast him!’ that is what he said. ‘And you, you Indian dog, said nothing about him.’ Well! I wonder if Theodore Hatch wasn’t on his way here to find that letter, himself, and if Black Eagle didn’t direct him where to come. Poor Black Eagle! Ichabod Nesbit was the cause of your death at last.”

So communing with himself in thoughts and frequent murmured words, John spent a half hour so deeply buried in his reflections concerning the murder of the unfortunate Indian, the likelihood that the murderer might be brought to the rope’s end as he so richly deserved, and the mystery of the letter describing the buried treasure, that he did not realize how swiftly time was passing.
136

A loud whinny from Neb brought the pondering lad to the remembrance that he had much to do, and that already it was noon. Hurrying up the hill he obtained the shovel, fastened to Neb’s harness as a means of carrying it conveniently, and led the horse nearer the scene of his labors.

His first task would be to dig a grave; but a new problem appeared. Undoubtedly he must bury the body of Black Eagle as well as the bones of Nesbit. It seemed too dreadful to place them together—the remains of this white man who had killed the Indian’s son, and those of the Indian who had been revenged for the act, only to meet his own death after showing Palefaces, whom he believed to be friends, where the outlaw’s body lay.

“Yes, there will have to be two graves,” John decided, and a glance at the sun told him he must work hard if he was to return to the cabin before another day.
137

Fortunately the earth was not frozen beneath its thick covering of leaves, and except for the many roots he encountered, the lonely young sexton of the wilderness made rapid progress. One trench of sufficient length and depth for the purpose, at the foot of a large ash tree, which could be made to serve as a headstone, he had completed when a rustling of the leaves caused him to look quickly up. Duff, Dexter, and Quilling stood before him, the last named grinning wolfishly over John’s surprise.

“Who killed the Indian known as Black Eagle?” asked Duff, in cold accusing tone, pointing his finger at the boy, who had hastily thrown down his shovel and picked up his rifle, instead.

“That’s him,” chorused Dexter and Quilling, pointing their fingers also at John.

“Who saw him do it?”

“All three of us,” came the answer.

“You swear that this is true?”

“That’s what we do; we saw him shoot the Indian,” came the reply.
138

“Now, boy,” Duff began, calmly sitting down on a log, his rifle in both hands, while his eyes never left the face of the lad he so monstrously accused, “you heard what was said. They’ve hanged men for killing peaceable Redskins before now, and will do it again. Just let us tell what we know at Fort Pitt, and you are pretty likely to stretch a rope. You killed Black Eagle; we saw you do it—never mind, now! Let me talk! I say we saw you shoot the Indian down. We can set all the Mingoes west of the Ohio against you, or we can have you hanged. We haven’t just decided which we’d rather do.”

“Why, you—you black liar, what are you talking about?” cried John, succeeding at last in getting a word in, as Duff paused. “Do you suppose—”

“Never you mind what I suppose; but we can make you a heap of trouble, because, you know, we saw you kill the Indian—shoot him down in cold blood.”
139

And here a villainous smile flitted over the marked and loathsome face of the wretch; but he scarcely paused, and there was no suspicion of a smile in the cold harshness of his voice as he went on:

“We can make you and the pompous young gentleman you call Kingdom sweat blood, or hang your scalps on the belts of the Mingoes, without the least trouble to ourselves. But we don’t propose to do that. We have nothing against you young shavers, and don’t want to have. All we want is the paper writing you got from the body of Ichabod Nesbit. Oh yes, we know you got it. What were you coming here to bury the bones for, if you didn’t?”

As one who thinks he has asked a question which cannot be answered, Duff, squinting in a most horrid manner and shaking his finger viciously, paused for a reply.

John was thinking fast. He knew that the murderous trio who faced him would not hesitate to kill if they thought he had the missing half of the hidden fortune letter in his possession. He also knew from the words he had heard Duff use in speaking of Black Eagle, that he had at first believed the letter had fallen into the Quaker’s hands. Did he know where that gentleman then was? It was hardly likely.
140

In infinitely less time than the telling of it requires, the alert young pioneer thought of these things and without even seeming to hesitate, he answered:

“You’ll have to tell me what you are trying to get at; and for the matter of that, what are you doing here? What reason had you for killing Black Eagle the way you did, and he without even a hatchet to defend himself? You can’t put that wicked, cold-blooded murder onto me by lying, any more than you can fly. What’s more, you can’t scare me by saying you’ll swear I killed the Indian! So I tell you right here, Mr. Duff, that I want no more to do with you. You guessed right in thinking I came here to bury all that’s left of Ichabod Nesbit. It is because my partner and I have civilized feelings. Anything else you want to know you can ask about at the next house. What was Ichabod Nesbit to you, anyway? If you ever had any friendship for him, why shouldn’t you turn in here and help with his grave?”
141

With such rapidity did John speak, his voice growing in vehemence as he continued, that Duff was bothered to find an immediate answer.

“Didn’t you see no Quaker feller &............