He banged the fiddle on the table in a rage, then took it up and patted it. Putting it under his chin once more, he played the most mournful air I ever heard, which made my flesh creep and my hair stand on end. Then he played "The Last Man."
"Curse the tune!" he roared. "If this is the last man I'm going to shoot I'll give him decent burial. Dead men tell no tales, and buried ones show no sign."
While all this was going on my eyes were not idle. On the rude bed lay the ghastly figure of a man—a hole in his forehead, and his face covered with blood. A rifle and a pistol lay on the table beside the murderer, also a chamois leather bag; and a small pile of gold dust was scattered near it. A brandy bottle and a pannikin, from which he had evidently been imbibing freely, stood at his elbow. I could easily have shot him, but that wasn't my game. "A living dog is better than a dead lion." I would watch and wait.
Then he went to a corner of the tent and took up a pick and shovel, with which he walked out and strode down the gulley, evidently with the intention of digging a hole into which to put the body. He hummed a lively tune for a few bars, dropping into a minor key, and ending with a snatch from "The Last Man," as if he couldn't help it. This annoyed him. He swore a round oath, and clattered the pick and shovel together. I thought he was going to throw them down and come back, but he went on. I was after him like a weasel on a rabbit's track.
The moon came out grey and ghostly, so I easily kept him in sight. I felt sure he was "Thunder-and-Lightning." Something in his gait told me he was the man. He turned from side to side, apparently looking for a digger's trial-hole that would suit his purpose. When he had found one he threw down the pick and shovel, and peered into the excavation. It seemed to satisfy him, for he jumped into it and began to make it deeper.
I thought this was the proper moment to introduce myself, so I went softly to the edge of the hole and whispered, "Mum." He gave a start, for I had stolen so noiselessly he was taken aback, and stopped to look at me.
"Good evening, captain," I said; "I come from Sailor Tom. He enlisted me in your troop if you'll have me. Here is the proof." Then I showed him the token I had received from Tom. He took it and examined it by the pale light, then felt it with his forefinger.
Before I knew what he was doing he had pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it at me. I felt Death's scythe swishing at my heart. My life wasn't worth a minute's purchase, but I did not flinch or wink an eye.
"Say the oath after me."
"All right, captain; I'm ready."