"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!"