“Waal—waal! buried him thar, did they? Teck’s gone!” A shade—a symptom of remorse—crossed his face. “He’s in the grave whar he tried ter put me. Mighty narrer place, folks, mighty narrer, fur ennybody ez hev lived in the worl’ an’ got used ter seein’ the sky.” He drew a long sigh, and mournfully shook his head. “An’ he war a good man in the main—Look-a-hyar, Marcelly,” he broke off abruptly, her half-repressed sob catching his attention, “what ye cryin’ fur? It’s whar he tried ter put me! An’ ye see, Andy, they can’t do nuthin’ ter me, kase I war a off’cer o’ the law in the discharge o’ my jewty. I war obligated ter arrest Teck, an’ I pulled him out’n his saddle an’ bruk his neck. Ye don’t b’lieve it, Marcelly?” He looked at her with a flashing, challenging eye, the red and angry blood rushing suddenly over his pale face. “Ye said ye didn’t, yestiddy.” “Waal, that war yestiddy,” the girl urged soothingly. “Ye see, Andy, ef Teck hed killed me whenst he rid me down, ’twould be murder, kase I war off’cer o’ the law, arrestin’ him whilst gamblin’. Hoss-racin’ on a public road air gamblin’, though ye mightn’t think it, Andy. Ye young folks air so sodden in sin ye dunno right from wrong. Buried him up yander on the mounting-side, ’mongst his folkses’ graves. Waal—waal! They needn’t try ter hold me ’sponsible, kase they can’t. Hev ye hearn ennythin’ ’bout his harnt bein’ viewed, an’ sech? Fraish-buried folks walk sometimes, they say; leastwise till they git used ter bein’ under the groun’, or wharever they hev gone ter. But I hev never hearn tell o’ none o’ them ez hev been dead a cornsider’ble time gittin’ a-goin’,—none o’ the old folks, dead fifty year ago an’ better, an’ none o’ them Injuns now out’n that thar Injun buryin’-groun’ way up on Sing-Song Creek. Whoever see a Injun harnt? Shucks! ’twould make me laff. I reckon them folks hed no souls, ef the truth war knowed. Ye ever see a Injun harnt?” “Naw, sir,” replied Andy. “Them Injuns over ter Quallatown air plenty dead enough fur me!” He laughed constrainedly as he made the admission, for the sight of Eli Strobe, lean, and pale, and grizzly, with his overgrown beard, and his tangled hair, and bandaged head, was not reassuring, as he sat and discussed his ghastly subject. “I jes’ study ’bout Teck Jepson all the time. I kin jes’ see how he looked whenst I got him down on the road under his horse’s hoofs. He bled a heap.” He said this with a certain relish. Then he looked curiously at a dark stain on his coat-sleeve, and was silent for a moment. “I wisht I knowed what he said whenst he got ter Torment.” He winked feebly at Longwood, unnoticing that the young man winced. “I wisht I knowed ef he walks.”