"Are you hurt?"
"A slight scratch on the arm near the shoulder, and my horse is hurt."
An examination of Hudson's arm proved that the scratch was not serious, but I thought it best to exchange his horse for one belonging to a soldier. We then went on, Frank and I walking in advance of the ambulance mules.
"There's something down there in the road by Ferrier's grave, sir," said Corporal Duffey. "Looks like a dead man."
"Is that where Ferrier was killed?" I asked.
"Yes, sir; I was in command of the detail that came here to look him up. He had built a little stone fort on that knoll up yonder, and kept the redskins off three days. He kept a diary, you remember, which we found. He killed six of them, and might as many more, but he couldn't live without sleep or food, and the rascals got him. They scattered the mail in shreds for miles about here."
"Who was Ferrier?" Frank asked.
"He was a discharged California volunteer, who rode the express before Mr. Hudson."
"Do you think Mr. Hudson knew his predecessor had been killed?"
"Yes; the incident was much talked of at the time."