THE CAMP IN THE TREE-TOP.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
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?”
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 ’round here, an’ ain’t he got no letter
like Duff said?” squeaked Dexter, over Duff’s shoulder, in his peculiar
gasping tones.
“Shut up, you!” commanded Duff, turning to his companion savagely. “Who
said anything about a Quaker?” And then to John in the same tones: “Now
we have no time for foolishness, bub! We want information and, by
heaven, we propose to have it!”
As he spoke the hideous fellow leaped toward the boy as though to seize
him.
“Stand back there!” the lad cried, clubbing his rifle, unwilling to
shoot, much as he was inclined to do so, unless it were absolutely
necessary.
“Grab him! Grab him, you blasted fools!” yelled Duff furiously, and
Dexter and Quilling, who ran to their leader’s side, attempted to do so.
Dodging the fellows, John dealt a stunning blow on Duff’s head with the
butt of his rifle, then, springing to one side, escaped the terrific
lunge the brute made toward him, and in another second he had leaped
upon Neb’s back, Dexter and Quilling being not five yards away. He
seized the reins from the branch over which they were thrown, and a word
was enough to set the horse off at a gallop.
A bullet whistled over John’s shoulder as he bent down to avoid the low
limbs of the trees, and the terrible tones of Duff, as in the vilest
language he cursed his companions for being too slow, rang in his ears.
One other shot was fired but it went wide. For five minutes he gave Neb
free rein, then knowing that he was, for the time being, safe, he
stopped, nervous and excited, and doubting if his conduct had been
either brave or wise.
“But it was three against one and those fellows would have tried to make
me tell all I know about that letter, and Duff’s temper is so awful! He
would have killed me, like as not, if I would not tell him anything,”
John reasoned, persuading himself that he had done well to escape.
What was next to be done? That was the all-important question, after
all. Its answer, John decided, depended entirely on what Duff and his
agreeable companions meant to do, and he resolved to ascertain their
intentions.
Without further loss of time, therefore, the boy fastened Neb’s reins to
a branch as he had done before, and with great caution hurried back
along the trail. If he were being followed, he could soon find it out.
If the murderers were gone, he might return and complete the task he had
set out to perform.
Expecting to see Duff and the others coming toward him at any moment,
John made haste slowly, and half an hour passed before he again came
within sight of the little valley where the day’s terrible tragedy had
been enacted. The three men were not there.
Where were they? To answer the question, the young man who asked it of
himself continued on, going in the direction in which Quilling and
Dexter had disappeared just after the murder of Black Eagle.
“They may have a camp near by,” John told himself as he hurried along,
quietly as possible, though the leaves under his feet seemed to rustle
loudly as though calling out that he was coming, adding to his fears.
But he was right. Not much more than a quarter of a mile away was a
great tree, uprooted by the wind; and partially concealed by the
branches of its top upon the ground, he discovered Duff, Dexter and
Quilling. They were for the most part hidden by the limbs of the fallen
oak and had not John been very watchful he would not have discovered
them without being seen himself. As it was, he doubted his ability to
approach nearer without revealing his presence to the fellows. That they
were talking he knew by their gestures, but not a word could he hear.
Prudence prompted the boy to turn back and hurry home to tell Ree
everything that had happened. Then he thought how anxious his chum would
be to know what Duff’s plans were; and so, yielding to his own curiosity
and a desire to obtain this information, he made a wide half-circle and
approached the fallen tree, shielded from view by the mass of earth
still clinging to its upturned roots. These very roots, however, which
served him so well for the one purpose, entirely prevented his hearing
what was being said by the men, though he was now quite near. With great
care, then, he crept around to the trunk of the tree and keeping close
beside it, on his hands and knees crawled forward. Now he could hear the
conversation of the fellows, and under the protection of a great limb
which projected from the trunk fifty feet from the tree’s base, he
paused.
“It don’t noway stand to reason that the Quaker ain’t got the letter.”
John knew that it was Dexter who was talking, though he could not see.
The wheezy voice could be no other’s.
“But where is he? That’s the point I’m getting at. We could fix him in
short order, if we only knew that.”
These words, sharply spoken, were surely Duff’s.
“All I’ve got to say is, that I wish I was to home—I do, by gum!”
This was the landlord, tired, probably, of sleeping out at night, and
working and walking by day. John knew his voice, also.
“I wish to goodness you were!” came the voice of Duff, disgustedly, “but
all the miserable, sneaking robbing of travelers’ clothes at night, that
you ever did wouldn’t be a drop in the bucket beside this buried fortune
if we can only get hold of it. No man knows better than me what a lot of
wealth that chest has in it—unless it be that Quaker, blast him!”
“Well, we might go back to Fort Pitt for a spell, anyhow, an’ rest up,”
suggested Quilling.
“Not by a jugful!” Duff answered. “We’ll follow those blasted youngsters
up, and find out what they know. Like as not they, and not the Quaker,
have got that letter. They’re a blamed sight sharper than you give ’em
credit for, and the next time you let one of ’em get away from you, I’ll
boot you seven ways for Sunday, see if I don’t!”
Duff’s tones were full of emphasis, and it was all very interesting to
the boy concealed behind the tree trunk and the giant limb. But he heard
no more; for with, “So, now, stir yourselves,” the chief of the
conspirators walked out from the tree-top. He went toward a small beech
in which John now noticed that the quarters of a deer had been hung,
beyond the reach of wolves.
The fellow’s course took him within a few yards of the hidden boy, but
he passed on, unconscious of the eyes which watched him.
Knowing that in returning to the camp with the deer Duff would be almost
certain to see him, John waited only till the man’s back was toward him,
then leaped to his feet and ran.