he work his
rifle performs; and here you see it plainly--six little holes, laid
crossways."

"I'll swear to it!" cried Abiram, triumphantly. "He show'd me his
private mark, himself, and boasted of the number of deer he had laid
upon the prairies with these very bullets! Now, Ishmael, will you
believe me when I tell you the old knave is a spy of the red-skins?"

The lead passed from the hand of one to that of another, and
unfortunately for the reputation of the old man, several among them
remembered also to have seen the aforesaid private bullet-marks, during
the curious examination which all had made of his accoutrements. In
addition to this wound, however, were many others of a less dangerous
nature, all of which were supposed to confirm the supposed guilt of the
trapper.

The traces of many different struggles were to be seen, between the
spot where the first blood was spilt and the thicket to which it was now
generally believed Asa had retreated, as a place of refuge. These were
interpreted into so many proofs of the weakness of the murderer, who
would have sooner despatched his victim, had not even the dying strength
of the youth rendered him formidable to the infirmities of one so
old. The danger of drawing some others of the hunters to the spot, by
repeated firing, was deemed a sufficient reason for not again resorting
to the rifle, after it had performed the important duty of disabling
the victim. The weapon of the dead man was not to be found, and had
doubtless, together with many other less valuable and lighter articles,
that he was accustomed to carry about his person, become a prize to his
destroyer.

But what, in addition to the tell-tale bullet, appeared to fix
the ruthless deed with peculiar certainty on the trapper, was
the accumulated evidence furnished by the trail; which proved,
notwithstanding his deadly hurt, that the wounded man had still been
able to make a long and desperate resistance to the subsequent efforts
of his murderer. Ishmael seemed to press this proof with a singular
mixture of sorrow and pride: sorrow, at the loss of a son, whom in their
moments of amity he highly valued; and pride, at the courage and power
he had manifested to his last and weakest breath.

"He died as a son of mine should die," said the squatter, gleaning a
hollow consolation from so unnatural an exultation: "a dread to his
enemy to the last, and without help from the law! Come, children; we
have the grave to m