Remorselessly did the negro glare upon his expiring enemy as he uttered these last frantic speeches, and when, at last, the spirit had passed away, he bounded to his feet and began to exult over his now unconscious victim.
At this moment another personage appeared upon the scene.
At some little distance from the spot a man, leaning upon his rifle, stood taking a survey of the smoking ruins.
He had been for some time ignorant that any living being but himself was upon the hill.
His attention was now called to Crookleg, who, assured of his enemy’s death, could no longer restrain his immense joy, but was giving vent to it in cries and fantastic caperings.
“Ho, ho—dead! It am ’plendid sport to de ole nigga! Only to tink dat dis poor ole lame darkey hab been de cause ob a war ’tween de whites and de red-skins! Ha, ha, ha! it am most too good to be beliebed! But it am true—it am true!”
As the monstrous creature concluded the speech he was seen to spring suddenly into the air and fall flat upon his face—a corpse!
A long hunting-knife had penetrated his back!
“There, ye black hound! If you have been the cause of one war, you’ll never have a hand in another. I swore not to fight agin my own blood, nor to take part agin the red-skins, but black blood don’t count in my bargain!”
Saying this, Cris Carrol drew his blade from the negro’s body and coolly sauntered away from the spot.