ted the answer to Peabody, who groaned in spirit, and nervously
waited for the night when he was to stand watch.

CHAPTER XXIV.

A SAD SIGHT.

A day later, while the wagon-train was slowly winding through a mountain
defile, they encountered a sight which made even the stout-hearted
leader look grave. Stretched out stiff and stark were two figures, cold
in death. They were men of middle age, apparently. From each the scalp
had been removed, thus betraying that the murderers were Indians.

"I should like to come across the red devils who did this," said
Fletcher.

"What would you do with them?" asked Ferguson.

"Shoot them down like dogs, or if I could take them captive they should
dangle upon the boughs of yonder tree."

"I hope I shall be ready to die when my time comes," said Ferguson; "but
I want it to be in a Christian bed, and not at the hands of a dirty
savage."

Just then Lawrence Peabody came up. He had been lagging in the rear, as
usual.

"What have you found?" he inquired, not seeing the bodies at first, on
account of the party surrounding them.

"Come here, and see for yourself, Peabody," said one of the company.

Lawrence Peabody peered at the dead men--he was rather near-sighted--and
turned very pale.

"Is it the Indians?" he faltered.

"Yes, it's those devils. You can tell their work when you see it. Don't
you see that they are scalped?"

"I believe I shall faint," said Peabody, his face becoming of a greenish
hue. "Tom, let me lean on your shoulder. Do--do you think it has been
done lately?"

"Yesterday, probably," said Ferguson. "The bodies look fresh."

"Then the Indians that did it must be near here?"

"Probably."

"These men were either traveling by themselves, or had strayed away from
their party," said Fletcher. "It shows how necessary it is for us to
keep together. In union there is strength."

The bodies were examined. In the pocket of one was found a letter
addressed to James Collins, dated at some town in Maine. The writer
appeared to be his wife. She spoke of longing for the time when he
should return with money enough to redeem their farm from a heavy
mortgage.

"Poor woman!" said Ferguson. "She will wait for her husband in vain. The
mortgage will never be paid through his exertions."

Tom looked sober, as he glanced compassionately at the poor emigrant.

"He came on the same errand that I did," he said. "I hope my journey
will have a happier ending."

"A