The sun is up--the hour ten o'clock, morning. Around the residence of
the widow Clancy a crowd of people has collected. They are her nearest
neighbours; while those who dwell at a distance are still in the act of
assembling. Every few minutes two or three horsemen ride up, carrying
long rifles over their shoulders, with powder-horns and bullet-pouches
strapped across their breasts. Those already on the ground are
similarly armed, and accoutred.
The cause of this warlike muster is understood by all. Some hours
before, a report has spread throughout the plantations that Charles
Clancy is missing from his home, under circumstances to justify
suspicion of foul play having befallen him. His mother has sent
messengers to and fro; hence the gathering around her house.
In the South-Western States, on occasions of this kind, it does not do
for any one to show indifference, whatever his station in life. The
wealthiest, as well as the poorest, is expected to take part in the
administration of backwoods' justice--at times not strictly _en regle_
with the laws of the land.
For this reason Mrs Clancy's neighbours, far and near, summoned or not
summoned, come to her cottage. Among them Ephraim Darke, and his son
Richard.
Archibald Armstrong is not there, nor looked for. Most know of his
having moved away that same morning. The track of his waggon wheels has
been seen upon the road; and, if the boat he is to take passage by,
start at the advertised hour, he should now be nigh fifty miles from the
spot, and still further departing. No one is thinking of him, or his;
since no one dreams of the deposed planter, or his family, having ought
to do with the business that brings them together.
This is to search for Charles Clancy, still absent from his home. The
mother's story has been already told, and only the late comers have to
hear it again.
In detail she narrates what occurred on the preceding night; how the
hound came home wet, and wounded. Confirmatory of her speech, the
animal is before their eyes, still in the condition spoken of. They can
all see it has been shot--the tear of the bullet being visible on its
back, having just cut through the skin. Coupled with its master's
absence, this circumstance strengthens the suspicion of something amiss.
Another, of less serious suggestion, is a piece of cord knotted around
the dog's neck--the loose end looking as though gnawed by teeth, and
then broken off with a pluck; as if the animal had been tied up, and
succeeded in setting itself free.
But why tied? And why has it been shot? These are questions that not
anybody can answer.
Strange, too, in the hound having reached home at the hour it did. As
Clancy went out about the middle of the day, he could not have gone to
such a distance for his dog to have been nearly all night getting back.
Could he himself have fired the bullet, whose effect is before their
eyes?
A question almost instantly answered in the negative; by old
backwoodsmen among the mustered crowd--hunters who know how to interpret
"sign" as surely as Champollion an Egyptian hieroglyph. These having
examined the mark on the hound's skin, pronounce the ball that made it
to have come from a _smooth-bore, and not a rifle_. It is notorious,
that Charles Clancy never carried a smooth-bore, but always a rifled
gun. His own dog has not been shot by him.
After some time spent in discussing the probabilities and possibilities
of the case, it is at length resolved to drop conjecturing, and commence
search for the missing man. In the presence of his mother no one speaks
of searching for his _dead body_; though there is a general
apprehension, that this will be the thing found.
She, the mother, most interested of all, has a too true foreboding of
it. When the searchers, starting off, in kindly sympathy tell her to be
of good cheer, her heart more truly says, she will never see her son
again.
On leaving the house, the horsemen separate into two distinct parties,
and proceed in different directions.
With one and the larger, goes Clancy's hound; an old hunter, named
Woodley, taking the animal along. He has an idea it may prove
serviceable, when thrown on its master's track--supposing this can be
discovered.
Just as conjectured, the hound does prove of service. Once inside the
woods, without even setting nose to the ground, it starts off in a
straight run--going so swiftly, the horsemen find it difficult to keep
pace with it.
It sets them all into a gallop; this continued for quite a couple of
miles through timber thick and thin, at length ending upon the edge of
the swamp.
Only a few have followed the hound thus far, keeping close. The others,
straggling behind, come up by twos and threes.
The hunter, Woodley, is among the foremost to be in at the death; for
_death_ all expect it to prove. They are sure of it, on seeing the
stag-hound stop beside something, as it does so loudly baying.
Spurring on towards the spot, they expect to behold the dead body of
Charles Clancy. They are disappointed.
There is no body there--dead or alive. Only a pile of Spanish moss,
which appears recently dragged from the trees; then thrown into a heap,
and afterwards scattered.
The hound has taken stand beside it; and there stays, giving tongue. As
the horsemen dismount, and get their eyes closer to the ground, they see
something red; which proves to be blood. It is dark crimson, almost
black, and coagulated. Still is it blood.
From under the edge of the moss-heap protrudes the barrel of a gun. On
kicking the loose cover aside, they see it is a rifle--not of the kind
common among backwoodsmen. But they have no need to waste conjecture on
the gun. Many present identify it as the yager usually carried by
Clancy.
More of the moss being removed, a hat is uncovered--also Clancy's.
Several know it as his--can swear to it.
A gun upon the ground, abandoned, discharged as they see; a hat
alongside it; blood beside both--there must have been shooting on the
spot--some one wounded, if not actually killed? And who but Charles
Clancy? The gun is his, the hat too, and his must be the blood.
They have no doubt of its being his, no more of his being dead; the only
question asked is "Where's his body?"
While those first up are mutually exchanging this interrogatory, others,
later arriving, also put it in turn. All equally unable to give a
satisfactory answer--alike surprised by what they see, and puzzled to
explain it.
There is one man present who could enlighten them in part, though not
altogether--one who comes lagging up with the last. It is Richard
Darke.
Strange he should be among the stragglers. At starting out he appeared
the most zealous of all!
Then he was not thinking of the dog; had no idea how direct, and soon,
the instinct of the animal would lead them to the spot where he had
given Clancy his death shot.
The foremost of the searchers have dismounted and are standing grouped
around it. He sees them, and would gladly go back, but dares not.
Defection now would be damning evidence against him. After all, what
has he to fear? They will find a dead body--Clancy's--a corpse with a
bullet-hole in the breast. They can't tell who fired the fatal shot--
how could they? There were no witnesses save the trunks of the
cypresses, and the dumb brute of a dog--not so dumb but that it now
makes the woods resound with its long-drawn continuous whining. If it
could but shape this into articulate speech, then he might have to fear.
As it is, he need not.
Fortified with these reflections, he approaches the spot, by himself
made bloody. Trembling, nevertheless, and with cheeks pale. _Not_
strange. He is about being brought face to face with the man he has
murdered--with his corpse!
Nothing of the kind. There is no murdered man there, no corpse! Only a
gun, a hat, and some blotches of crimson!
Does Darke rejoice at seeing only this? Judging by his looks, the
reverse. Before, he only trembled slightly, with a hue of pallor on his
cheeks. Now his lips show white, his eyes sunken in their sockets,
while his teeth chatter and his whole frame shivers as if under an ague
chill!
Luckily for the assassin this tale-telling exhibition occurs under the
shadow of the great cypress, whose gloomy obscurity guards against its
being observed. But to counteract this little bit of good luck there
chances to be present a detective that trusts less to sight, than scent.
This is Clancy's dog. As Darke presents himself in the circle of
searchers collected around it, the animal perceiving, suddenly springs
towards him with the shrill cry of an enraged cat, and the elastic leap
of a tiger!
But for Simeon Woodley seizing the hound, and holding it back, the
throat of Richard Darke would be in danger.
It is so, notwithstanding.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Around the blood-stained spot there is a pause; the searchers forming a
tableau strikingly significant. They have come up, to the very last
lagger; and stand in attitudes expressing astonishment, with glances
that speak inquiry. These, not directed to the ground, nor straying
through the trees, but fixed upon Dick Darke.
Strange the antipathy of the dog, which all observe! For the animal,
soon as let loose, repeats its hostile demonstrations, and has to be
held off again. Surely it signifies something, and this bearing upon
the object of their search? The inference is unavoidable.
Darke is well aware their eyes are upon him, as also their thoughts.
Fortunate for him, that night-like shadow surrounding. But for it, his
blanched lips, and craven cast of countenance, would tell a tale to
condemn him at once--perhaps to punishment on the spot.
As it if, his scared condition is not unnoticed. It is heard, if not
clearly seen. Two or three, standing close to him, can hear his teeth
clacking like castanets!
His terror is trebly intensified--from a threefold cause. Seeing no
body first gave him a shock of surprise; soon followed by superstitious
awe; this succeeded by apprehension of another kind. But he had no time
to dwell upon it before being set upon by the dog, which drove the more
distant danger out of his head.
Delivered also from this, his present fear is about those glances
regarding him. In the obscurity he cannot read them, but for all that
can tell they are sternly inquisitorial. _En revanche_, neither can
they read his; and, from this drawing confidence, he recovers his
habitual coolness--knowing how much he now needs it.
The behaviour of the hound must not pass unspoken of. With a forced
laugh, and in a tone of assumed nonchalance, he says:
"I can't tell how many scores of times that dog of Clancy's has made at
me in the same way. It's never forgiven me since the day I chastised
it, when it came after one of our sluts. I'd have killed the cur long
ago, but spared it through friendship for its master."
An explanation plausible, and cunningly conceived; though not
satisfactory to some. Only the unsuspicious are beguiled by it.
However, it holds good for the time; and, so regarded, the searchers
resume their quest.
It is no use for them to remain longer by the moss-heap. There they but
see blood; they are looking for a body. To find this they must go
farther.
One taking up the hat, another the abandoned gun, they scatter off,
proceeding in diverse directions.
For several hours they go tramping among the trees, peering under the
broad fan-like fronds of the saw-palmettoes, groping around the
buttressed trunks of the cypresses, sending glances into the shadowed
spaces between--in short, searching everywhere.
For more than a mile around they quarter the forest, giving it thorough
examination. The swamp also, far as the treacherous ooze will allow
them to penetrate within its _gloomy_ portals--fit abode of death--place
appropriate for the concealment of darkest crime.
Notwithstanding their zeal, prompted by sympathising hearts, as by a
sense of outraged justice, the day's search proves fruitless--bootless.
No body can be found, dead or living; no trace of the missing man.
Nothing beyond what they have already obtained--his hat and gun.
Dispirited, tired out, hungry, hankering after dinners delayed, as eve
approaches they again congregate around the gory spot; and, with a
mutual understanding to resume search on the morrow, separate, and set
off--each to his own home.