He sinks upon one knee beside the prostrate form; he touches the face, the hands; looks closer yet, and says in a husky voice, as he puts the lantern down:
“He’s dead, boys!”
They cluster about that silent, central figure. One by one they touch it; curiously, reverently, tenderly or timidly, according as their various natures are.
Then a chorus of exclamations, low, fierce, excited.
“How was it?”
“Was he killed?”
“The storm—”
“More likely, Injuns.”
“No, Bob, it wasn’t Indians,” says Parks mournfully, “for here’s his scalp.”
And he tenderly lays a brown hand upon the abundant locks of his dead comrade, sweeping them back from the forehead with a caressing movement.