“Yes; he was robbed at the Eagle tavern of the half of a letter telling the location of a fortune hidden in the ground somewhere near Philadelphia. Now, don’t open your eyes so. We should have guessed as much after seeing the letter those men, Duff and Dexter, and the landlord, had. The fact is, Mr. Hatch has not told his story more than what I have told you, but waited until you should be here to hear it.”
“But tell thy own story first, friend. Mine can wait,” the Quaker said.
“Well, Black Eagle’s dead, and Duff and Dexter killed him. I saw Duff shoot him down. They might have killed me, but I got away from them. Quilling, the landlord at the Eagle tavern, is with them, and—”
Really enjoying the sensation he had caused, John paused and looked at Ree, who was staring at him in astonishment, and at the Quaker, who was wringing his hands, greatly distressed, as he always was when he heard of the killing of human beings, or of any act of cruelty.
“The poor Indian! Father in heaven, forgive the slayers of so good a man as Black Eagle!” came prayerfully from the Quaker’s lips.
“Did you know him—Black Eagle, I mean?” asked John in some surprise.
The Quaker nodded, and Ree, recovering from the depths of thought into which his mind had sunk, quickly said:
“Now, John, do tell all that happened! Begin at the time you left here! You saw three fellows and—”
“Just wait a jiffy,” John interrupted. “I didn’t see those fellows when I left here, any such thing!”
Ree smiled and allowed his friend to begin all over again and tell the story in his own way. This John did to the satisfaction of both his hearers, when once fairly started, and long before he had finished they were forgetting their supper, growing cold before them as they listened.