two shoots o' powder on the skunk!"

"Without bothering to notice the turkey-buzzards that have been following
him down the river," I said.

He looked sheepish and defended himself:

"The cover was too thick to see anything overhead."

"He was a friend to the whites. He has been murdered. His killer struck
him down from behind. As if murder wasn't bad enough, his killer tried to
make a joke of it by stuffing journey-cake in his mouth. The cake alone
would tell every red who sees him that a white man killed him."

"Only trouble with the joke is that there ain't a couple o' him," hissed
young Cousin. "But the fellor who played this joke owes me two shoots of
powder. I 'low he'll pay me."

"You know who he is?"

"Seen Lige Runner up along. I 'low it will be him. Him an' me look on
Injuns just the same way."

"It's fellows like him and Joshua Baker and Daniel Greathouse who bring
trouble to the settlements," I said.

His face was as hard as a mask of stone as he looked at me. His eyes,
which should have glowed with the amiable fires of youth, were as
implacably baleful as those of a mad wolf.

"You don't go for to figger me in with Baker an' Greathouse?" he fiercely
demanded.

"I know your story. It wouldn't be just to rank you with them."

"Mebbe it's my story what turns other men ag'in' these critters," he
coldly suggested. "There was a time when I had a daddy. He talked like you
do. He called some o' the red devils his friends. He believed in 'em, too.
Cornstalk, the Shawnee devil, was his good friend.

"Daddy an' mammy 'lowed we could live on Keeney's Knob till all git-out
bu'sted up an' never have no trouble with friendly Injuns. That was ten
years ago. I was eight years old. Then Cornstalk made his last visit.
Daddy had just brought in some deer meat. Made a feast for th' bloody
devils.

"I happened to be out in the woods when it was done. Or, happen like, I'd
'a' gone along t'others. There's two things that'll make me hunt Cornstalk
an' his Shawnees to the back-country o' hell--my little sister, an' their
overlookin' to wipe me out."

He turned and stood by the canoe, glaring down at the dead man. All
Virginia was familiar with the terrible story of the Cousin massacre at
Keeney's Knob. Fully as tragic and horrible to me, perhaps, was the
terrible change in the only survivor. He became an Injun-killer as soon as
he was able to handle a rifle; and a Virginia boy of twelve was ashamed
when he failed