As it was, the release of Long-Hair caused a great deal of dissatisfaction and mutinous talk.

Even Beverley now felt that the execution ordered by the commander ought to have been sternly carried out.
A day or two later, however, the whole dark affair was closed forever by a bit of confidence on the part of Oncle Jazon when Beverley dropped into his hut one evening to have a smoke with him.
The rain was over, the sky shone like one vast luminary, with a nearly full moon and a thousand stars reinforcing it.

Up from the south poured one of those balmy, accidental wind floods, sometimes due in February on the Wabash, full of tropical dream-hints, yet edged with a winter chill that smacks of treachery.

Oncle Jazon was unusually talkative; he may have had a deep draught of liquor; at all events Beverley had little room for a word.
"Well, bein' as it's twixt us, as is bosom frien's," the old fellow presently said, "I'll jes' show ye somepin poorty." He pricked the wick of a lamp and took down his bunch of scalps.
"I hev been a addin' one more to keep company o' mine an' the tothers." He separated the latest acquisition from the rest of the wisp and added, with a heinous chuckle: "This'n's Long-Hair's!" And so it was.

Beverley knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose to go.
"Wen they kicks yer Oncle Jazon's ribs," the old man added, "they'd jes' as well lay down an' give up, for he's goin' to salervate 'em." Then, after Beverley had passed out of the cabin, Oncle Jazon chirruped after him: "Mebbe ye'd better not tell leetle Alice.