“All right, gentlemen; never mind,” said Buck good-humouredly. “These niggers are mighty particular about doing just what work they like and no more. Me and my mate will soon fish the gun out if it’s there. They seem to think that as they have found the place where it’s buried their job’s done.”
“No,” said Dunn dismally.
“What do you know about it?” growled Buck.
“Been here five years,” said the man sadly, quite in a tone which seemed to suggest that he wished he had never seen the place. “Won’t go because they know people have been buried there. It’s where you dug out the bones.”
“Ah!” said the doctor. “Yes, that must be it. These people fear the dead more than they do the living.”
“Oh, that’s it!” cried Mark. “Don’t you remember how they wouldn’t go near after we had found the bones?”
“No, no, Buck—Dunn; we’ll do it, and show them how cowardly they are.”
The two men drew back, and while the blacks shifted a little further away and close together watched, with their faces drawn with horror, the boys bent down and tore away the dead fronds of the fern.
“Here, it’s all right,” cried Dean. “Hooray, Mark! Here’s your gun. Why, they’ve only buried the stock and half the barrels.”
For there, lightly covered with stones and sand, were the barrels of the missing gun, fully six inches quite exposed.