Part 106 (1/2)

It was less surprise, than gratification, that showed itself on the countenance of Zeb Stump, as he deciphered the writing on the paper.

”That ere's the backin' o' a letter,” muttered he. ”Tells a goodish grist o' story; more'n war wrote inside, I reck'n. Been used for the wad' o' a gun! Wal; sarves the cuss right, for rammin' down a rifle ball wi' a patchin' o' scurvy paper, i'stead o' the proper an bessest thing, which air a bit o' greased buckskin.”

”The writin' air in a sheemale hand,” he continued, looking anew at the piece of paper. ”Don't signerfy for thet. It's been sent to _him_ all the same; an he's hed it in purzeshun. It air somethin' to be tuk care o'.”

So saying, he drew out a small skin wallet, which contained his tinder of ”punk,” along with his flint and steel; and, after carefully stowing away the sc.r.a.p of paper, he returned the sack to his pocket.

”Wal!” he went on in soliloquy, as he stood silently considering, ”I kalkerlate as how this ole c.o.o.n 'll be able to unwind a good grist o'

this clue o' mystery, tho' thur be a bit o' the thread broken hyur an thur, an a bit o' a puzzle I can't clurly understan'. The man who hev been murdered, whosomdiver _he_ may be, war out thur by thet puddle o'

blood, an the man as did the deed, whosomdiver _he_ be, war a stannin'

behint this locust-tree. But for them greenhorns, I mout a got more out o' the sign. Now thur ain't the ghost o' a chance. They've tramped the hul place into a durnationed mess, cuvortin' and caperin' abeout.

”Wal, 'tair no use goin' furrer thet way. The bessest thing now air to take the back track, if it air possable, an diskiver whar the hoss wi'

the broke shoe toted his rider arter he went back from this leetle bit o' still-huntin'. Thurfor, ole Zeb'lon Stump, back ye go on the boot tracks!”

With this grotesque apostrophe to himself, he commenced retracing the footmarks that had guided him to the edge of the opening. Only in one or two places were the footprints at all distinct. But Zeb scarce cared for their guidance.

Having already noted that the man who made them had returned to the place where the horse had been left, he knew the back track would lead him there.

There was one place, however, where the two trails did not go over the same ground. There was a forking in the open list, through which the supposed murderer had made his way. It was caused by an obstruction,--a patch of impenetrable thicket. They met again, but not till that on which the hunter was returning straggled off into an open glade of considerable size.

Having become satisfied of this, Zeb looked around into the glade--for a time forsaking the footsteps of the pedestrian.

After a short examination, he observed a trail altogether distinct, and of a different character. It was a well-marked path entering the opening on one side, and going out on the other: in short, a cattle-track.

Zeb saw that several shod horses had pa.s.sed along it, some days before: and it was this that caused him to come back and examine it.

He could tell to a day--to an hour--_when_ the horses had pa.s.sed; and from the sign itself. But the exercise of his ingenuity was not needed on this occasion. He knew that the hoof-prints were those of the horses ridden by Spangler and his party--after being detached from the main body of searchers who had gone home with the major.

He had heard the whole story of that collateral investigation--how Spangler and his comrades had traced Henry Poindexter's horse to the place where the negro had caught it--on the outskirts of the plantation.

To an ordinary intellect this might have appeared satisfactory. Nothing more could be learnt by any one going over the ground again.

Zeb Stump did not seem to think so. As he stood looking along it, his att.i.tude showed indecision.

”If I ked make shur o' havin' time,” he muttered, ”I'd foller it fust.

Jest as like as not I'll find a _fluke_ thur too. But thur's no sartinty 'beout the time, an I'd better purceed to settle wi' the anymal as cast the quarter shoe.”

He had turned to go out of the glade, when a thought once more stayed him.

”Arter all, it kin be eezy foun' at any time. I kin guess whar it'll lead, as sartint, as if I'd rud 'longside the skunk thet made it-- straight custrut to the stable o' Caser Corver.

”It's a durned pity to drop this un,--now whiles I'm hyur upon the spot.

It'll gie me the makin' o' another ten-mile jurney, an thur moutn't be time. Dog-goned ef I don't try a leetle way along it. The ole maar kin wait till I k.u.m back.”

Bracing himself for a new investigation, he started off upon the cattle-track, trodden by the horses of Spangler and his party.

To the hoof-marks of these he paid but slight attention; at times, none whatever. His eye only sought those of Henry Poindexter's horse.