“Now, boy,” Duff began, calmly sitting down on a log, his rifle in both hands, while his eyes never left the face of the lad he so monstrously accused, “you heard what was said. They’ve hanged men for killing peaceable Redskins before now, and will do it again. Just let us tell what we know at Fort Pitt, and you are pretty likely to stretch a rope. You killed Black Eagle; we saw you do it—never mind, now! Let me talk! I say we saw you shoot the Indian down. We can set all the Mingoes west of the Ohio against you, or we can have you hanged. We haven’t just decided which we’d rather do.”
“Why, you—you black liar, what are you talking about?” cried John, succeeding at last in getting a word in, as Duff paused. “Do you suppose—”
“Never you mind what I suppose; but we can make you a heap of trouble, because, you know, we saw you kill the Indian—shoot him down in cold blood.”
And here a villainous smile flitted over the marked and loathsome face of the wretch; but he scarcely paused, and there was no suspicion of a smile in the cold harshness of his voice as he went on:
“We can make you and the pompous young gentleman you call Kingdom sweat blood, or hang your scalps on the belts of the Mingoes, without the least trouble to ourselves. But we don’t propose to do that. We have nothing against you young shavers, and don’t want to have. All we want is the paper writing you got from the body of Ichabod Nesbit. Oh yes, we know you got it. What were you coming here to bury the bones for, if you didn’t?”
As one who thinks he has asked a question which cannot be answered, Duff, squinting in a most horrid manner and shaking his finger viciously, paused for a reply.
John was thinking fast. He knew that the murderous trio who faced him would not hesitate to kill if they thought he had the missing half of the hidden fortune letter in his possession. He also knew from the words he had heard Duff use in speaking of Black Eagle, that he had at first believed the letter had fallen into the Quaker’s hands. Did he know where that gentleman then was? It was hardly likely.
In infinitely less time than the telling of it requires, the alert young pioneer thought of these things and without even seeming to hesitate, he answered:
“You’ll have to tell me what you are trying to get at; and for the matter of that, what are you doing here? What reason had you for killing Black Eagle the way you did, and he without even a hatchet to defend himself? You can’t put that wicked, cold-blooded murder onto me by lying, any more than you can fly. What’s more, you can’t scare me by saying you’ll swear I killed the Indian! So I tell you right here, Mr. Duff, that I want no more to do with you. You guessed right in thinking I came here to bury all that’s left of Ichabod Nesbit. It is because my partner and I have civilized feelings. Anything else you want to know you can ask about at the next house. What was Ichabod Nesbit to you, anyway? If you ever had any friendship for him, why shouldn’t you turn in here and help with his grave?”
With such rapidity did John speak, his voice growing in vehemence as he continued, that Duff was bothered to find an immediate answer.