ment will settle now." He waved me back, and said there was something yet to be done first.
"Where is this John Wilson Mackenzie?" said he.
"Dead."
"When did he die?"
"He didn't die at all—he was killed."
"How?"
"Tomahawked."
"Who tomahawked him?"
"Why, an Indian, of course. You didn't suppose it was the superintendent of a Sunday-school, did you?"
"No. An Indian, was it?"
"The same."
"Name of the Indian?"
"His name? I don't know his name."
"Must have his name. Who saw the tomahawking done?"
"I don't know."
"You were not present yourself, then?"
"Which you can see by my hair. I was absent."
"Then how do you know that Mackenzie is dead?"
"Because he certainly died at that time, and I have every reason to believe that he has been dead ever since. I know he has, in fact."
"We must have proofs. Have you got the Indian?"
"Of course not."
"Well, you must get him. Have you got the tomahawk?"
"I never thought of such a thing."
