“Ha! ha! ha! is it you, Sneak?  I thought you was an Indian!  Come on, I’ll tell now. It was a man’s moccasin!” said Joe, in a low, mysterious tone.

“And you ran in that manner from an old moccasin!” said Glenn, reproachfully.

“But there was a foot in it!” continued Joe.

“A he man’s foot?” inquired Sneak, quickly turning to Joe.

“How could I tell whether it was a he man’s foot, or a female woman’s, as you call them?” replied Joe.

“Are you sure it was a human being’s foot?” demanded Glenn.

“Well, I never saw any other animal but a man wear a buckskin moccasin!” replied Joe.

“An Irishman can’t tell any thing right, nohow you can fix it,” said Sneak.

“They can’t tell how you make wooden nutmegs,” retorted Joe.

“Come,” said Glenn, “we will go and examine for ourselves.”

The party set off in a brisk walk, and soon reached the scene of Joe’s alarm.  Sure enough, there was the moccasin, and a man’s foot in it!

“It’s somebody, after all,” said Sneak, giving the frozen foot a kick.

“Ain’t you ashamed to do that?” said Joe, knitting his brows.

“He’s nothing more than a stone, now.  Why didn’t he holler when you stuck your knife into him?” replied Sneak.

“Dig him up, that we may see who he is,” said Glenn.

“I’d rather not touch him,” said Joe.

“You’re a fool!” said Sneak.  “Stand off, and let me at him—­I’ll soon see who he is.”  Sneak threw down his maskrats, and with his spear and knife soon extricated the body, which he handled as unceremoniously as he would have done a log of wood.  “Dod rot your skin!” he exclaimed, when he brushed the snow from the man’s face.  He then threw down the body with great violence.

“Oh don’t!” cried Joe, while the cold chills ran up his back.

“Who is it?” asked Glenn.

“It’s that copper-snake, traitor, skunk, water-dog, lizard-hawk, horned frog—­”

“Who do you mean?” interrupted Glenn.

“Posin, the maliverous rascal who collogued with the Injins to murder us all!  I’m glad he got his dose—­and if he was alive now, I’d make him swaller at least two foot of my spear,” said Sneak.

“’Twas me—­I killed him—­look at the buck-shot holes in his back!” exclaimed Joe, now recovering from his excitement and affright.

“Yes, and you’re a nice chap, ain’t you, to run like flugins from a dead man that you killed yourself!” said Sneak.

“How did I know that I killed him?” retorted Joe.

“Any fool might know he was dead,” replied Sneak.

“I’ll pay you for this, some of these times,” said Joe.

“How shall we bury him?” asked Glenn.

“That can be done real easy,” said Sneak, taking hold of the dead man’s leg and dragging him along on the snow like a sled.

“What are you going to do with him?” demanded Glenn.