He worked assiduously for several minutes, when his hatchet struck a substance which could not be earth, and an ejaculation of joy parted his lips. Then he ceased to dig, scooped up the loose dirt from the cavity with joined hands, and drew forth a box covered with tanned deer-skin.
“Ahdeek no take box,” he said, prying the lid up with his knife. “He want talking-papers, that all.”
The lid soon yielded, and he drew a small bundle of damp parchment from the box.
“Snowbeard talk after he dead,” said the young half-breed, thrusting the papers into his medicine-pouch. “Now he go back to friends, and Silver Rifle know all ’bout yellow money.”
He carefully replaced the box in the hole, and rose to his feet, as, with a sharp cry of triumph, an Indian leaped upon him!
The half-breed went to the ground beneath the onslaught, but a moment later the savage rolled from him with a death-groan. The knife of Ahdeek had done its work.
He sprung to his feet to confront three new foes, who threw themselves upon him with the fury of tigers.
His knife stretched one Indian dead upon the plain, and he hurled another into the water, then closed with the last.
All at once the madmen paused for breathing time.
“Ahdeek find papers that talk ’bout gold,” said the Indian. “Little Fox heard Snowbeard tell Ahdeek ’bout ’um by his fire last winter. Little Fox mus’ have talking-papers.”