“Good God!” he gasped.
No, it was speaking—it was a man. But it was almost as bad. Still had not seen Jacquelin before in two years. And he had never noticed how like the “Indian-killer” he was. What did he want?
“I have come to see you about the grave-yard,” said Jacquelin. The voice was his father’s. It smote Still like a voice from the dead.
Still wanted to apologize to him; but he could not speak, his throat was dry. There was a pistol in the drawer before him and he pulled the drawer open and put his hand on it. The cold steel recalled him to himself and he drew it toward him, his courage reviving. Jacquelin must have heard the sound; he was right over him.
“If you attempt to draw that pistol on me,” he said, quietly, “I will kill you right where you sit.”
Whether it was the man’s unstrung condition, or whether it was Jacquelin’s resemblance to the fierce Indian-killer, as he stood there in the dusk with his eyes burning, his strong hands twitching, or whether it was his unexpected stalwartness and fierceness as he towered above the overseer, the latter sank back with a whine.
A negro entered at a side door with a light, but stood still, amazed at the scene, muttering to himself: “Good Lordy!”
Jacquelin went on speaking. He told Still that if he cut down so much as a bush in that grave-yard until he had a decision of court authorizing him to do so, he would kill him, even if he had the whole Government of the United States around him.
“Now, I have come here to tell you this,” he said, in the same quiet, strange voice, “and I have come to tell you one thing more, that you will not be in this place always. We are coming back here, the living and the dead.”
Still turned even more livid than before. “What do you mean?” he gasped.