As he spoke, the old hunter pointed to a clump of bushes that surmounted a mass of rocks and gravel, seemingly without any soil to give them existence. From it a huge bird, gorged almost to bursting, laboriously rose a few feet in the air, and floated sluggishly down the cañon, a hundred yards or so, when it landed upon a cliff, at a moderate elevation, and then stepped heavily around, so as to face and watch the men that had disturbed him.
“That’s whar it is,” said Tom, looking toward the bushes.
The next minute the three moved toward the spot indicated. Their lives had accustomed them to many repulsive and terrible scenes, but all were visibly shocked by what they saw.
It was a magnificently-formed Blackfoot warrior, lying flat upon his back, while the bird had been tearing its meal from his vitals. He had undoubtedly been dead several days, else the odor would not have penetrated so far, but there was no bullet-mark upon his person, so far as the three could see without a more minute examination than any chose to make.
“What killed him?” asked Black Tom.
“The beast,” was the instant answer of Teddy.
“What makes you say that?” asked Tom, turning rather sharply upon the Irishman.
“Look how his hid is broke in,” replied Teddy, as he pointed downward. “Thar ar’ only two things that could break it in that shtyle.”
“Wal, what are they?”
“A shillalegh or the baste; and, as there is no one prisent that can wield the shillalegh but your humble servant, Teddy O’Doherty, be the same towken it must have bin the baste.”