s recently dragged from the trees; then thrown into a heap,
and afterwards scattered.

The hound has taken stand beside it; and there stays, giving tongue. As
the horsemen dismount, and get their eyes closer to the ground, they see
something red; which proves to be blood. It is dark crimson, almost
black, and coagulated. Still is it blood.

From under the edge of the moss-heap protrudes the barrel of a gun. On
kicking the loose cover aside, they see it is a rifle--not of the kind
common among backwoodsmen. But they have no need to waste conjecture on
the gun. Many present identify it as the yager usually carried by
Clancy.

More of the moss being removed, a hat is uncovered--also Clancy's.
Several know it as his--can swear to it.

A gun upon the ground, abandoned, discharged as they see; a hat
alongside it; blood beside both--there must have been shooting on the
spot--some one wounded, if not actually killed? And who but Charles
Clancy? The gun is his, the hat too, and his must be the blood.

They have no doubt of its being his, no more of his being dead; the only
question asked is "Where's his body?"

While those first up are mutually exchanging this interrogatory, others,
later arriving, also put it in turn. All equally unable to give a
satisfactory answer--alike surprised by what they see, and puzzled to
explain it.

There is one man present who could enlighten them in part, though not
altogether--one who comes lagging up with the last. It is Richard
Darke.

Strange he should be among the stragglers. At starting out he appeared
the most zealous of all!

Then he was not thinking of the dog; had no idea how direct, and soon,
the instinct of the animal would lead them to the spot where he had
given Clancy his death shot.

The foremost of the searchers have dismounted and are standing grouped
around it. He sees them, and would gladly go back, but dares not.
Defection now would be damning evidence against him. After all, what
has he to fear? They will find a dead body--Clancy's--a corpse with a
bullet-hole in the breast. They can't tell who fired the fatal shot--
how could they? There were no witnesses save the trunks of the
cypresses, and the dumb brute of a dog--not so dumb but that it now
makes the woods resound with its long-drawn continuous whining. If it
could but shape this into articulate speech, then he might have to fear.
As it is, he need not.

Fortified with these reflections, h