Sheaves

THE long and ferocious battle between those desperate wild Indians, Chopimalive and his squaw Sitonim (otherwise known as Jim and Daisy Rye) and the intrepid trader, Hugh Grainger, had come to an end, and the intrepid trader lay dead on the hayfield. He had still (which was a good deal to ask of a dead man) to carry on and direct the Indians’ subsequent movements, and with praiseworthy disregard of self and scorn of consequence, he had said that it was necessary to bury him with musical honours in the arid sands of the American desert, and “Rule Britannia” would do. He had, however, hinted that if his body and legs were buried, that would be quite sufficient in the way of ritual; but the Indians had thought otherwise, and had covered his head also. Then the Indians, being inconveniently hot, had sat down close to his tomb, with threats that unless he lay really dead they would bury him much deeper.

“Dead traders always have their faces uncovered,” said Hugh.

“This one didn’t,” remarked Chopimalive.

“But the squaw always came and uncovered his face afterward, immediately afterward,” said Hugh, “otherwise his ghost haunted them and woke them up about midnight with the touch of an icy hand.”

“Well, your hand wasn’t at all icy,” said Sitonim{4} scornfully. “It was very hot—as hot as me. Besides, you’re dead, and you can’t talk.”

Hugh coughed away some bits of clover that had got into his mouth.