We then went on, Frank and I walking in advance of the
ambulance mules.
"There's something down there in the road by Ferrier's grave, sir,"
said Corporal Duffey. "Looks like a dead man."
"Is that where Ferrier was killed?" I asked.
"Yes, sir; I was in command of the detail that came here to look him
up. He had built a little stone fort on that knoll up yonder, and kept
the redskins off three days. He kept a diary, you remember, which we
found. He killed six of them, and might as many more, but he couldn't
live without sleep or food, and the rascals got him. They scattered
the mail in shreds for miles about here."
"Who was Ferrier?" Frank asked.
"He was a discharged California volunteer, who rode the express before
Mr. Hudson."
"Do you think Mr. Hudson knew his predecessor had been killed?"
"Yes; the incident was much talked of at the time."
We were nearing the object in the road. Suddenly the mules caught
sight of it, backed, and crushed the ten-gallon keg under the axle
against a bowlder--a serious mishap, as our after experience will
show.
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