The Death Shot: A Story Retold. Reid Mayne

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!”

      Chapter Eighteen.

      “To the sheriff!”

      A day of dread, pitiless suspense to the mother of Charles Clancy, while they are abroad searching for her son.

      Still more terrible the night after their return – not without tidings of the missing man. Such tidings! The too certain assurance of his death – of his murder – with the added mystery of their not having been able to find his body. Only his hat, his gun, his blood!

      Her grief, hitherto held in check by a still lingering hope, now escapes all trammels, and becomes truly agonising. Her heart seems broken, or breaking.

      Although without wealth, and therefore with but few friends, in her hour of lamentation she is not left alone. It is never so in the backwoods of the Far West; where, under rough home-wove coats, throb hearts gentle and sympathetic, as ever beat under the finest broadcloth.

      Among Mrs Clancy’s neighbours are many of this kind; chiefly “poor whites,” – as scornfully styled by the prouder planters. Some half-score of them determine to stay by her throughout the night; with a belief their presence may do something to solace her, and a presentiment that ere morning they may be needed for a service yet more solemn. She has retired to her chamber – taken to her bed; she may never leave either alive.

      As the night chances to be a warm one – indeed stifling hot, the men stay outside, smoking their pipes in the porch, or reclining upon the little grass plot in front of the dwelling, while within, by the bedside of the bereaved widow, are their wives, sisters, and daughters.

      Needless to say, that the conversation of those without relates exclusively to the occurrences of the day, and the mystery of the murder. For this, they all believe it to have been; though utterly unable to make out, or conjecture a motive.

      They are equally perplexed about the disappearance of the body; though this adds not much to the mystery.

      They deem it simply a corollary, and consequence, of the other. He, who did the foul deed, has taken steps to conceal it, and so far succeeded. It remains to be seen whether his astuteness will serve against the search to be resumed on the morrow.

      Two questions in chief, correlative, occupy them: “Who killed Clancy?” and “What has been the motive for killing him?”

      To the former, none of them would have thought of answering “Dick Darke,” – that is when starting out on the search near noon.

      Now that night is on, and they have returned from it, his name is on every lip. At first only in whispers, and guarded insinuations; but gradually pronounced in louder tone, and bolder speech – this approaching accusation.

      Still the second question remains unanswered: —

      “Why should Dick Darke have killed Charley Clancy?”

      Even put in this familiar form it receives no reply. It is an enigma to which no one present holds the key. For none know aught of a rivalry having existed between the two men – much less a love-jealousy, than which no motive more inciting to murder ever beat in human breast.

      Darke’s partiality for Colonel Armstrong’s eldest daughter has been no secret throughout the settlement. He himself, childishly, in his cups, long since made all scandal-mongers acquainted with that. But Clancy, of higher tone, if not more secretive habit, has kept his love-affair to himself; influenced by the additional reason of its being clandestine.

      Therefore, those, sitting up as company to his afflicted parent, have no knowledge of the tender relations that existed between him and Helen Armstrong, any more than of their being the cause of that disaster for which the widow now weeps.

      She herself alone knows of them; but, in the first moment of her misfortune, completely prostrated by it, she has not yet communicated aught of this to the sympathetic ears around her. It is a family secret, too sacred for their sympathy; and, with some last lingering pride of superior birth, she keeps it to herself. The time has not come for disclosing it.

      But it soon will – she knows that. All must needs be told. For, after the first throes of the overwhelming calamity, in which her thoughts alone dwelt on the slain son, they turned towards him suspected as the slayer. In her case with something stronger than suspicion – indeed almost belief, based on her foreknowledge of the circumstances; these not only accounting for the crime, but pointing to the man who must have committed it.

      As she lies upon her couch, with tears streaming down her cheeks, and sighs heaved from the very bottom of her breast – as she listens to the kind voices vainly essaying to console her – she herself says not a word. Her sorrow is too deep, too absorbing, to find expression