Chapter Thirty Six.
The Burnt Shanty.
The ghost of Crookleg did not in any way disturb Cris Carrol, either sleeping or awake.
The worthy backwoodsman believed that he had done a highly meritorious action in for ever disposing of that malevolent individual.
“The infernal black skunk, to be cuttin’ his capers over the bodies of brave men who had laid down their lives in a war he, and sich as he, brought about! It were no more nor an act of justice to send him to everlastin’ perdition, and, if I never done a more valuable thing to society than stickin’ three inches of cold steel atween his two shoulder-blades, I think I desarves the thanks of the hul community.”
This consolation Cris indulged in whenever he thought of that terrible episode upon Tampa hill.
He had returned a few days after the massacre and had found the dead decently buried.
Wacora had commanded it to be done.
The charred ruins of Rody’s house, however, recalled the memory of that eventful night.