“’Twas the Quaker, blast him!” one coarse voice exclaimed. “And you, you Indian dog, said not a word about him till now! Why didn’t you tell us you had told him where you killed the man?”
Scarcely was this sentence spoken when John reached a point not more than fifty feet from the source of the angry contention where he could see, but, hidden by the thick brush, escaped being seen.
There stood Duff and Dexter, the men he and Ree had met at the Eagle tavern, and also Hank Quilling, the proprietor of that disreputable establishment. With them was an Indian,—and—could it be possible that he was associating with such rogues?—John almost whistled for amazement. The Redskin was his old friend, Black Eagle.
Duff was speaking. His rage was terrible as he pointed his finger menacingly at the Indian and cried out, as the Mohawk stood haughtily erect, his arms folded upon his chest, though his eyes flashed.
“Blast your red hide! I could—by the Eternal, I will—kill you!”
With a tremendous oath, the white man raised his rifle and quick as flash discharged it, the muzzle almost touching Black Eagle’s body.
It was all over in an instant. The bullet sped to the Indian’s heart; the poor fellow fell senseless, dying at his slayer’s feet.
“Lord, man! Would you bring a whole tribe of warriors down on us! An’ us away off here—”
It was the proprietor of the Eagle tavern who was speaking now, gasping the words chokingly, frightened and dazed by the brutal murder committed.
Before he could say more, John Jerome sprang among them. So quickly and noiselessly had he emerged from the brush that he was not seen till his angry voice came shrill and harsh: