Jacky grinned, and led the way. They had not gone very far when another great black bird rose so near their feet as to make them jump, and peering through the bushes they saw a man lying on his back. His arm was thrown in an easy, natural way round his gun, but at a second glance it was plain the man was dead. The crows had ripped his clothes to ribbons with their tremendous beaks, and lacerated the flesh and picked out the eyes.
They stepped a few paces from this sight. There was no sign of violence on the body.
“Poor fellow!” said Jem. “How did he come by his end, I wonder?” And he stretched forward and peered with pity and curiosity mingled.
“Lost in the bush!” said Robinson, very solemnly. And he and George exchanged a meaning look.
“What is that for?” said George, angrily, to Jacky—“grinning in sight of a dead body?”
“White fellow stupid fellow,” was all Jacky's reply.
The men now stepped up to the body to examine it; not that they had much hope of discovering who it was, but still they knew it was their duty for the sake of his kindred to try and find out.
George, overcoming a natural repugnance, examined the pockets. He found no papers. He found a knife, but no name was cut in the handle. In the man's bosom he found a small metal box, but just as he was taking it out Jem gave a halo!
“I think I know him,” cried Jem. “There is no mistaking that crop of black hair; it is my old captain, Black Will.”
“You don't say so! What could he be doing here without his party?”