g. But,
to make sure, he veered off sharply, away from the footpath into the
high weeds so that the startled grasshoppers sprayed up in front of him
in fan-like flights.

He was right; it was only a chance. The Belled Buzzard swung off too,
but in the opposite direction, with a sharp tonking of its bell, and,
flapping hard, was in a minute or two out of hearing and sight, past
the trees to the westward.

Again the squire skimped his dinner, and again he spent the long drowsy
afternoon upon his front gallery. In all the sky there were now no
buzzards visible, belled or unbelled--they had settled to earth
somewhere; and this served somewhat to soothe the squire's pestered
mind. This does not mean, though, that he was by any means easy in his
thoughts. Outwardly he was calm enough, with the ruminative judicial air
befitting the oldest justice of the peace in the county; but, within
him, a little something gnawed unceasingly at his nerves like one of
those small white worms that are to be found in seemingly sound nuts.
About once in so long a tiny spasm of the muscles would contract the
dewlap under his chin. The squire had never heard of that play, made
famous by a famous player, wherein the murdered victim was a pedler
too, and a clamoring bell the voice of unappeasable remorse in the
murderer's ear. As a strict churchgoer the squire had no use for players
or for play actors, and so was spared that added canker to his
conscience. It was bad enough as it was.

That night, as on the night before, the old man's sleep was broken and
fitful and disturbed by dreaming, in which he heard a metal clapper
striking against a brazen surface. This was one dream that came true.
Just after daybreak he heaved himself out of bed, with a flop of his
broad bare feet upon the floor, and stepped to the window and peered
out. Half seen in the pinkish light, the Belled Buzzard flapped directly
over his roof and flew due south, right toward the swamp--drawing a
direct line through the air between the slayer and the victim--or,
anyway, so it seemed to the watcher, grown suddenly tremulous.

* * * * *

Knee deep in yellow swamp water the squire squatted, with his shotgun
cocked and loaded and ready, waiting to kill the bird that now typified
for him guilt and danger and an abiding great fear. Gnats plagued him
and about him frogs croaked. Almost overhead a log-cock clung lengthwise
to a snag, watching him. Snak