lar 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 comfor