FOLLOWING THE TRAIL.
Half an hour later, lying on a blanket in the stable, the dog breathed
its last, while the three enraged and sorrowful lads stood looking on.
Barker’s face was grim and bitter, his heart bursting with the wrath
his lips could find no words to express.
Springer drew Piper aside. “Who do you sus-suppose would do a
miserable, dirty thing like that, Sleuth?” he asked in a whisper.
“Not having had time to investigate the affair thoroughly, I’m not
fully prepared to answer your question, Phil; but my deduction is that
some one shot the poor hound with malice aforethought, or words to that
effect.”
“It doesn’t require extreme perspicacity to arrive at that conclusion,”
returned Springer sarcastically. “It was a low-down, murderous trick,
and the contemptible sneak who did it ought to smart for it. The thing
is to find out who it was.”
“Berlin isn’t popular. He has a number of enemies, and any one of these
before-mentioned enemies might have——”
“Not any one of them; only a fellow of the very lowest and most vicious
type would shoot a harmless dog in order to hurt the creature’s master.
Of course I wouldn’t make any accusations—yet; but there are two
fellows in town I’d suspect more than any one else.”
“In full and complete assurance of confidence, you may mention their
names for my listening ear.”
“Oh, you can guess. I mean Lander and Davis.”
“H’m!” said Sleuth, leaning his chin on his clenched fist and puckering
his brow into an expression of profound meditation and thought.
“There’s yet another whose name has flashed comet-wise through my mind.”
“You mean——”
“Grant!” whispered Piper, straightening out his index finger and
pressing it against his lips.
Phil shook his head. “No, Sleuth, I can’t think it of that fuf-fellow.
As unpopular as Grant is, I don’t believe he’d do such a contemptible
thing.”
“Perhaps not,” admitted Sleuth; “but it’s the method of great
detectives to take every suspicious person into consideration. I’ll
stake my personal reputation on it that one of the three parties
mentioned is the culpable wretch. If you had seen what my eyes beheld
over at Bunk Lander’s old camp on a certain dark and dismal night, if
you had witnessed the venomous rage with which Rod Grant fastened his
clutches on the throat of said Lander, you might now be disposed to
think him capable even of such an act as this.”
“But Davis denied that story; he said there wasn’t a word of truth in
it.”
“And lied in his false throat,” growled Sleuth hoarsely. “I know what I
saw, and I likewise know that Mr. Grant and Mr. Lander have not been on
particularly friendly terms since that narrowly averted tragedy. On the
other hand, the before-mentioned Davis and the before-said Grant have
been very chummy indeed. Why, Davis has even called on Grant at the
domicile of Miss Priscilla Kent—called privately, secretly,
surreptitiously, under cover of darkness.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh,” answered Sleuth, throwing out his chest, “I’ve been keeping a
vigilant and sleepless eye upon those parties.”
“But I can’t believe Grant would dud-do it,” persisted Springer. “Davis
might, and he’s particularly sus-sore on Berlin since that little
mix-up at the academy Thursday.”
“Is it not possible—indeed, probable—that both these persons were
concerned?”
“I won’t believe it of Rod Grant until I see pup-proof,” said Phil.
Barker, having thrown one end of the blanket over the body of the dog,
stood frowning a few moments in the open stable door, then turned
suddenly to the others.
“I’m going to follow that crimson trail,” he announced. “Will you
fellows come along with me?”
“You bet,” answered Springer.
“Sure we will,” nodded Sleuth eagerly.
“Then get your snowshoes, Phil, for we may need them. Here are my old
ones, which I loaned Rollins last Saturday; Piper can use those. I
shall take my gun.”
“You won’t nun-need a gun, will you?” faltered Springer.
“Can’t tell; I may. Hurry up after your snowshoes. We’ll be ready to
start by the time you get back.”
Phil went off at a run, while Berlin and Sleuth made preparations to
start out.
“My prediction is,” said Piper, “that we’ll have to hustle, for, if I
mistake not, I see a feathery flake or two in the air already. It will
be snowing hard in less than an hour, something on which I’ll stake my
professional reputation.”
Soon Springer returned, panting and flushed, bringing his snowshoes.
They were waiting for him, Berlin having his shotgun tucked under his
arm. By this time the occasional snowflakes had grown more plentiful,
and, in apprehension that the sanguine trail would soon be obliterated,
they set forth with all possible haste.
For a short distance the crimson drops on the snow took them along the
main highway, but presently they were led away across the fields toward
the distant woods. More than once they found a spot where Silver
Tongue, weakened and nearly exhausted, had lain for a few moments upon
the snow. Over a high ridge they went, and then, having to make more
speed across a drifted valley, they finally paused to step into their
snowshoes. With each passing minute the snowflakes steadily grew
thicker, but in the shelter of the woods this was hardly perceptible,
and the red drops still guided them easily.
Few words were spoken; even Sleuth’s loquacious tongue was stilled.
Their heart-beats quickened, they penetrated deeper and deeper into the
woods. To Piper it seemed like a genuine man hunt, descriptions of
which he had often perused with tingling nerves and intense
satisfaction in the favorite stories of his choice, and in his lively
imagination they were officers of the law pressing close at the heels
of a fleeing malefactor.
At times the evergreen thickets were so dense that they pressed through
them with no small difficulty. Once the trail led through some white
birches which stood gleaming like silent ghosts there in the shadows.
They came out at last to the open meadows beyond the woods and found
that it was now snowing so heavily that the next strip of timber could
be but dimly seen, as through a veil.
“It’s no use,” muttered Springer; “this old snowstorm is going to balk
us.”
Barker, his cap pulled low over his eyes and his body bent forward to
catch the occasional red stains which could still be seen through the
film of snow that had already fallen, strode on without comment.
And then, at the very edge of the next timber, they found the spot
where Silver Tongue had been shot. Beyond that there was no trail of
blood, but Piper, searching, quickly uttered a shout of satisfaction,
bringing the others hurrying toward him.
“Here’s the scoundrel’s tracks!” cried Sleuth, pointing downward. “He
was on snowshoes. He stood right here behind this bunch of cedars and
fired at the dog.”
“No question about it,” agreed Barker grimly. “Now we must try to
follow the tracks.”
It quickly became evident that, after doing the shooting, the unknown
had made off in great haste, his long strides indicating this. The
tracks followed the edge of the woods for some distance and then turned
into an old path, along which the pursuers were able to make
considerable speed—so much, indeed, that Sleuth, who had heretofore
kept close at Barker’s heels, finally dropped, panting, behind
Springer. As he fell back Piper called a warning to Berlin.
“If we catch him, be careful what you do, Barker, old man; don’t lose
your head, for you’ve got a loaded gun in your hands.”
Berlin made no reply.
Suddenly the snowshoe trail turned sharply off the path, and once more
they found themselves pressing through tangled thickets. They came to a
clearing, where there was a small, frozen, snow-buried pond, and there
it was no small matter, even then, to follow that snowshoe trail.
“Five or ten minutes in the open, and he will have us bub-baffled,”
muttered Springer.
“He was making for the big swamp back of Turkey Hill,” panted Piper
from the rear. “There’s no shadow of doubt but he’s one of the three
suspects we mentioned, Phil; and I’m dead sure I know which one.”
Once more they brushed and crashed through bushes and low-hanging
branches. Finally, as they again came forth, Barker, amid a perfect
tangle of brush, uttered a cry, pointing at something red which dangled
from a branch.
“What is it?” questioned Springer.
“A handkerchief,” answered Berlin, securing it—“a silk handkerchief.
Look here, fellows, I’ve seen this same handkerchief before. The chap
we’re after must have been wearing it round his neck. He didn’t notice
when it slipped off or was pulled off by catching on that bush.”
“Let me look,” begged Phil eagerly. “By jove! I’ve sus-seen it before
myself! I saw it tied round the neck of a fellow only last Saturday.”
“That’s right,” nodded Berlin triumphantly. “I’m glad you were there,
Phil; I’m glad you saw it, too. The name of the miserable sneak who
owns this handkerchief is——”
“Rodney Grant,” finished Springer.
“My deduction was correct,” said Piper, well pleased with himself.
“He’s the feller who shot Silver Tongue.”
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