Now it happened that Hank Quilling, the tavern keeper, was gazing straight toward the spot where John was concealed at the moment the boy sprang up, as if out of the earth. The surprise that the fellow suffered as he saw the lad so upset him that he could do nothing but yell, and yell lustily he did:

“There he goes, Duff! There he goes! Stop him, Duff, stop him!”
149

Duff, likewise taken by surprise, and being under the impression at first, as he heard the leaves rustle under the flying boy’s feet, and saw a shadow streaking among the trees, that an Indian was after him, was given such a scare to begin with, and was so chagrined directly afterward, when he discovered what had taken place, that his wrath rose in a mighty storm.

Quilling’s yelling at him, instead of pursuing or shooting at the boy himself directed Duff’s rage toward the former landlord. Paying no attention to John, he rushed madly up to Quilling. With the most frightful curses he called the old fellow “a driveling idiot” and worse names, and ended by slapping him full in the face.

Even this vile insult, however, served only to make the erstwhile tavern keeper beg the more piteously for mercy, and try the harder to excuse himself to the man he feared. Never was there a more abject coward.
150

Considerably astonished that he was not pursued, though he heard the epithets Duff rained upon Quilling, John soon slackened his pace to a brisk walk, and looked about to get his bearings. He had lost sight of the trail when approaching the fallen tree, and in his haste to flee from the spot when discovery was no longer to be escaped, he had run in the wrong direction. The position of the sun, however, and the mossy bark on the north side of the trees, aided him in soon finding the right course, and in due time he reached Neb. Then he remembered that his shovel had been left in the grave intended for Ichabod Nesbit, and rode back for it.

The short afternoon was nearly gone, and it was likely that at any moment Duff and his two choice friends would come upon the scene. Still John resolved to try to complete the work of burying Nesbit’s remains. He stooped and picked up the shovel.

Bang—splank! A bullet shattered the handle of the tool and knocked it from the lad’s hands. At the same instant he saw Duff and Dexter running toward him, Quilling bringing up the rear.
151

In a trice John was mounted and away amid the frantic yells of Quilling and the harsh curses of Duff, and though Dexter took aim at him, he did not fire.

“It’s the charm—it’s the charm!” cried Quilling tremblingly. “Three times that pesky young rooster has got away from us this day! It’s bad luck—bad luck to follow him now!”

John heard the cry as he sped up the hill, but he knew Duff would ignore it, and feeling sure that he would be followed clear to the cabin, sooner or later, he lost no more time in hurrying toward home. He did not even stop in the gully to hitch Neb to the abandoned cart, as he had planned, but hurried by. It was now so late that he would not reach the cabin until after dark at best, and to try to thread the uncertain trail with the cart after darkness came was out of the question, even should he encounter no wolves, which animals were not unlikely to attack him if given half an opportunity after nightfall.
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The sparks pouring out of the great chimney of the cabin and the light shining through the chinks here and there, giving promise of a warm fire and supper awaiting him, were a most pleasant sight to John as he galloped into the clearing and across the little valley to his home, in the early twilight. The night had come on cold and raw, with every indication of a considerable snowfall and an end of the bright days of autumn weather which had extended into December.

Ree came quickly out of the cabin as he heard John’s approach.

“Trot along in, old boy, and warm yourself, I’ll look after Neb,” he said, wondering why John had not brought the old cart home, but waiting for another time to ask questions, for he knew his chum must be cold.
153

Ah, how pleasant it was to be snug and comfortable and safe once more, and with his mind chuck-full of interesting things to tell Ree, thought John, when he had washed his hands and face and spoken a pleasant word to the quiet Quaker sitting in a big, easy chair the boys had rigged up for him, with the half of a large hollow block of wood for a back. There was the delicious smell of fresh bear steaks to sharpen his appetite, too, and a crisp, brown johnny-cake still smoking hot on the table. A little bark basket of hickory nuts, to be cracked afterward as a relish and to help pass the time pleasantly, was on the rude chimney mantel. Only one thing marred his happiness. It was the thought of the awful murder of Black Eagle and of the Indian’s body lying cold and still in the dark forest.

“Yes, sir, I guess it does feel good to be back again,” said John most heartily, in reply to a remark the Quaker made, and soon Ree came in and supper was ready at once.

Theodore Hatch was helped up to the table, easy chair and all, and the two boys seated themselves on three-legged stools, of their own manufacture.
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“I’ve got a heap to tell,” said John, brimming over with anxiety to impart his information, but giving Ree a wink to signify that he could not tell all in the presence of the Quaker without letting the latter know the object of his journey.

“Go ahead; let’s hear the whole story,” said Ree. “Mr. Hatch knows where you went, and why. For, you see, he made a discovery to-day, and then I told him where Ichabod Nesbit was killed, and that you had gone to give his bones a respectable burial.”

The gravity of Ree’s tone caused John to ask, with some concern:

“A discovery?”

“Yes; he was robbed at the Eagle tavern of the half of a letter telling the location of a fortune hidden in the ground somewhere near Philadelphia. Now, don’t open your eyes so. We should have guessed as much after seeing the letter those men, Duff and Dexter, and the landlord, had. The fact is, Mr. Hatch has not told his story more than what I have told you, but waited until you should be here to hear it.”

“But tell thy own story first, friend. Mine can wait,” the Quaker said.
155

“Well, Black Eagle’s dead, and Duff and Dexter killed him. I saw Duff shoot him down. They might have killed me, but I got away from them. Quilling, the landlord at the Eagle tavern, is with them, and—”

Really enjoying the sensation he had caused, John paused and looked at Ree, who was staring at him in astonishment, and at the Quaker, who was wringing his hands, greatly distressed, as he always was when he heard of the killing of human beings, or of any act of cruelty.

“The poor Indian! Father in heaven, forgive the slayers of so good a man as Black Eagle!” came prayerfully from the Quaker’s lips.

“Did you know him—Black Eagle, I mean?” asked John in some surprise.

The Quaker nodded, and Ree, recovering from the depths of thought into which his mind had sunk, quickly said:

“Now, John, do tell all that happened! Begin at the time you left here! You saw three fellows and—”
156

“Just wait a jiffy,” John interrupted. “I didn’t see those fellows when I left here, any such thing!”

Ree smiled and allowed his friend to begin all over again and tell the story in his own way. This John did to the satisfaction of both his hearers, when once fairly started, and long before he had finished they were forgetting their supper, growing cold before them as they listened.

“Those chaps will be here, sooner or later. We’ve got to watch out for them,” said Ree decisively, when John concluded. “What a horrible fellow that Duff is!”

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