“I’ve got a healthy appetite myself,” remarked Peter Brush.
“I’m not backward that way either,” said Tom.
“Does your horse come of a consumptive family, too, doctor?” asked Brush, slyly, as his eye took in the bony skeleton on which Dr. Lycurgus B. Spooner was riding.
“In one sense, yes. He can consume as large an amount of hay and oats as any of his race. But, my friends, before we leave this place let us pay the last rites to the memory of these poor fellows who have been cut off in the midst of health and life by the savages.”
“I say amen to that with all my heart, and Tom will help, I know.”
“Yes,” said Tom, soberly, while the thought could not help rising that before long some stranger might be called upon to do the same service for him.
A hole was dug close to where the bodies lay, and the two victims were deposited therein with reverent care. No clew could be found to their identity. There were no letters in their pockets, and they were buried by those who knew not their names.
“I’d like to kill a few of the wretches that did this foul deed!” said Mr. Brush. “If I were going to be killed, I’d rather meet my fate at the hands of a white man than to be cut down by an ignorant savage.”
“I can’t say it would make much difference to me,” said Dr. Spooner, philosophically. “Death is death, whether a white man kills you, or a red man.”
“I would rather be killed by my equal than by a savage, who is only a two-legged brute,” persisted Peter Brush.