He had pointed toward the prostrate object. Cato walked up to it curiously. What was his horror at seeing the body of Bill Jameson, better known as Fighting Jim, dead at his feet.
A bullet-hole was in his forehead, and in his stiffened hand was a long knife. The sinister countenance was ghastly and cold, and the stream of blood from the hole had congealed on his face. He was quite dead.
Cato felt nervous. Only that morning he had seen Jim alive and well and had spoken to him. He was now dead. By whose hand did he die, and when?
As he stood gazing nervously down upon the departed robber, his courage failed. This would make the third robber that he had buried in a month. They had all died by the hand of beautiful, girlish Captain Downing.
The scout, Bob Griffith, came up to him and touched his elbow.
“You had better hurry up and bury him; the cap’n is watching you. He is grinning.”
The sweat started out on Cato’s forehead. Without further delay he seized a spade and fell to work lustily; the captain was smiling.
“Golly, Mars’r Griffit’! wha’ for he go um dead?” he asked, working hastily at a rude grave.
“Cap’n told him ter do suthin’ he didn’t like and he kedn’t see it. He called the cap’n a doll-babby. Then cap’n draws and shoots, and thar Jim lays.”
He was moving away when Cato caught him by the arm.