I crept forward, my heart pounding madly, until I could gain sight of his face.

He was a big fellow, not more than thirty, with sandy hair and beard, and a pugnacious jaw, his coarse hickory shirt slashed into ribbons, a bullet wound in the center of his forehead, and one arm broken by a vicious blow.

His calloused hands yet gripped the haft of an axe, just as he had died--fighting.
The sight of the man lying in that posture of horror was so terrible that I instantly grasped the body, dragging it from off the overturned bench, and seeking to give it a resting place on the floor.

But it was already stiffened in death, and I could only throw over it a blanket to hide the sight.

Tim's voice spoke from the doorway.
"Injuns, I reckon ?" "Yes, they have been here; the man is dead.