"Yes; there's one does."
"Name him!" is the demand of many voices.
"_Dick Darke_!"
The statement is confirmed by several others, in succession repeating
it.
After this succeeds silence--a pause in the proceedings--a lull ominous,
not of further speech but, action.
Daring its continuance, Woodley replaces the piece of lead in the wood,
just as it was before; then laying the two cleft pieces together, and
tying them with a string, he returns the chunk to his pocket.
This done, he makes a sign to the chiefs of the conclave to follow him
as if for further communication.
Which they do, drawing off out of the porch, and taking stand upon grass
plot below at some paces distant from the dwelling.
With heads close together, they converse for a while, _sotto voce_.
Not so low, but that a title, the terror of all malefactors, can be
heard repeatedly pronounced.
And also a name; the same, which, throughout all the evening has been
upon their lips, bandied about, spoken of with gritting teeth and brows
contracted.
Not all of those, who watch with the widow are admitted to this
muttering council. Simon Woodley, who presides over it, has his reasons
for excluding some. Only men take part in it who can be relied on for
an emergency, such as that the hunter has before him.
Their conference closed, four of them, as if by agreement with the
others, separate from the group, glide out through the wicket-gate, and
on to their horses left tied to the roadside rail fence.
"Unhitching" these, they climb silently into their saddles, and as
silently slip away; only some muttered words passing between them, as
they ride along the road.
Among these may be heard the name of a man, conjoined to a speech, under
the circumstances significant:--
"_Let's straight to the Sheriff_!"