A loud whinny from Neb brought the pondering lad to the remembrance that he had much to do, and that already it was noon. Hurrying up the hill he obtained the shovel, fastened to Neb’s harness as a means of carrying it conveniently, and led the horse nearer the scene of his labors.
His first task would be to dig a grave; but a new problem appeared. Undoubtedly he must bury the body of Black Eagle as well as the bones of Nesbit. It seemed too dreadful to place them together—the remains of this white man who had killed the Indian’s son, and those of the Indian who had been revenged for the act, only to meet his own death after showing Palefaces, whom he believed to be friends, where the outlaw’s body lay.
“Yes, there will have to be two graves,” John decided, and a glance at the sun told him he must work hard if he was to return to the cabin before another day.
Fortunately the earth was not frozen beneath its thick covering of leaves, and except for the many roots he encountered, the lonely young sexton of the wilderness made rapid progress. One trench of sufficient length and depth for the purpose, at the foot of a large ash tree, which could be made to serve as a headstone, he had completed when a rustling of the leaves caused him to look quickly up. Duff, Dexter, and Quilling stood before him, the last named grinning wolfishly over John’s surprise.
“Who killed the Indian known as Black Eagle?” asked Duff, in cold accusing tone, pointing his finger at the boy, who had hastily thrown down his shovel and picked up his rifle, instead.
“That’s him,” chorused Dexter and Quilling, pointing their fingers also at John.
“Who saw him do it?”
“All three of us,” came the answer.
“You swear that this is true?”
“That’s what we do; we saw him shoot the Indian,” came the reply.