At some twenty paces distance, the old hunter comes to a halt, stopping by the side of a cypress “knee”; one of those vegetable monstrosities that perplex the botanist—to this hour scientifically unexplained. In shape resembling a ham, with the shank end upwards; indeed so like to this, that the Yankee bacon-curers have been accused, by their southern customers, of covering them with canvas, and selling them for the real article!
It may be that the Mississippian backwoodsman, Woodley, could give a better account of these singular excrescences than all the closet scientists in the world.
He is not thinking of either science, or his own superior knowledge, while conducting his companion to the side of that “cypress knee.” His only thought is to show Heywood something he had espied while passing it in the search; but of which he did not then appear to take notice, and said nothing, so long as surrounded by the other searchers.
The time has come to scrutinise it more closely, and ascertain if it be what he suspects it.
The “knee” in question is one which could not be palmed off for a porker’s ham. Its superior dimensions forbid the counterfeit. As the two hunters halt beside it, its bulk shows bigger than either of their own bodies, while its top is at the height of their heads.
Standing in front of it, Woodley points to a break in the bark—a round hole, with edge slightly ragged. The fibre appears freshly cut, and more than cut—encrimsoned! Twenty-four hours may have elapsed, but not many more, since that hole was made. So believe the backwoodsmen, soon as setting their eyes on it.
Speaking first, Woodley asks—
“What d’ye think o’ it, Ned?”
Heywood, of taciturn habit, does not make immediate answer, but stands silently regarding the perforated spot. His comrade continues:—
“Thar’s a blue pill goed in thar’, which jedgin’ by the size and shape o’ the hole must a kum out a biggish gun barrel. An’, lookin’ at the red stain ’roun’ its edge, that pill must a been blood-coated.”
“Looks like blood, certainly.”
“It air blood—the real red thing itself; the blood o’ Charley Clancy. The ball inside thar’ has first goed through his body. It’s been deadened by something and don’t appear to hev penetrated a great way into the timmer, for all o’ that bein’ soft as sapwood.”
Drawing out his knife, the old hunter inserts the point of its blade into the hole, probing it.
“Jest as I sayed. Hain’t entered the hul o’ an inch. I kin feel the lead ludged thar’.”
“Suppose you cut it out, Sime?”
“Precisely what I intend doin’. But not in a careless way. I want the surroundin’ wood along wi’ it. The two thegither will best answer our purpiss. So hyar goes to git ’em thegither.”
Saying this, he inserts his knife-blade into the bark, and first makes a circular incision around the bullet-hole. Then deepens it, taking care not to touch the ensanguined edge of the orifice, or come near it.
The soft vegetable substance yields to his keen steel, almost as easily as if he were slicing a Swedish turnip; and soon he detaches a pear-shaped piece, but bigger than the largest prize “Jargonelle.”
Holding it in his hand, and apparently testing its ponderosity, he says:
“Ned; this chunk o’ timmer encloses a bit o’ lead as niver kim out o’ a rifle. Thar’s big eends o’ an ounce weight o’ metal inside. Only a smooth-bore barrel ked a tuk it; an’ from sech it’s been dischurged.”
“You’re right about that,” responds Heywood, taking hold of the piece of wood, and also trying its weight. “It’s a smooth-bore ball—no doubt of it.”
“Well, then, who carries a smooth-bore through these hyar woods? Who, Ned Heywood?”
“I know only one man that does.”
“Name him! Name the damned rascal!”
“Dick Darke.”
“Ye kin drink afore me, Ned. That’s the skunk I war a-thinkin’ ’bout, an’ hev been all the day. I’ve seed other sign beside this—the which escaped the eyes o’ the others. An’ I’m gled it did: for I didn’t want Dick Darke to be about when I war follerin’ it up. For that reezun I drawed the rest aside—so as none o’ ’em shed notice it. By good luck they didn’t.”
“You saw other sign! What, Sime?”
“Tracks in the mud, clost in by the edge o’ the swamp. They’re a good bit from the place whar the poor young fellur’s blood’s been spilt, an’ makin’ away from it. I got only a glimp at ’em, but ked see they’d been made by a man runnin’. You bet yur life on’t they war made by a pair o’ boots I’ve seen on Dick Darke’s feet. It’s too gloomsome now to make any thin’ out o’ them. So let’s you an’ me come back here by ourselves, at the earliest o’ daybreak, afore the people git about. Then we kin gie them tracks a thorrer scrutination. If they don’t prove to be Dick Darke’s, ye may call Sime Woodley a thick-headed woodchuck.”
“If we only had one of his boots, so that we might compare it with the tracks.”
“If! Thar’s no if. We shall hev one o’ his boots—ay, both—I’m boun’ to hev ’em.”
“But how?”
“Leave that to me. I’ve thought o’ a plan to git purssession o’ the scoundrel’s futwear, an’ everythin’ else belongin’ to him that kin throw a ray o’ daylight unto this darksome bizness. Come, Ned! Le’s go to the widder’s house, an’ see if we kin say a word to comfort the poor lady—for a lady she air. Belike enough this thing’ll be the death o’ her. She warn’t strong at best, an’ she’s been a deal weaker since the husban’ died. Now the son’s goed too—ah! Come along, an’ le’s show her, she ain’t forsook by everybody.”
With the alacrity of a loyal heart, alike leaning to pity, the young hunter promptly responds to the appeal, saying:—
“I’m with you, Woodley!”
Chapter Eighteen.
“To the sheriff!”
A day of dread, pitiless suspense to the mother of Charles Clancy, while they are abroad searching for her son.
Still more terrible the night after their return—not without tidings of the missing man. Such tidings! The too certain assurance of his death—of his murder—with the added mystery of their not having been able to find his body. Only his hat, his gun, his blood!
Her grief, hitherto held in check by a still lingering hope, now escapes all trammels, and becomes truly agonising. Her heart seems broken, or breaking.
Although without wealth, and therefore with but few friends, in her hour of lamentation she is not left alone. It is never so in the backwoods of the Far West; where, under rough home-wove coats, throb hearts gentle and sympathetic, as ever beat under the finest broadcloth.
Among Mrs. Clancy’s neighbours are many of this kind; chiefly “poor whites,”—as scornfully styled by the prouder planters. Some half-score of them determine to stay by her throughout the night; with a belief their presence may do something to solace her, and a presentiment that ere morning they may be needed for a service yet