s only thought is to put space between himself and
the spot where he has shed innocent blood; to get beyond earshot of
those canine cries, that seem commingled with the shouts of men--the
voices of avengers!

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE COON-HUNTER CAUTIOUS.

During the time that Darke is engaged in covering up Clancy's body, and
afterwards occupied in the attempt to kill his dog, the coon-hunter,
squatted in the sycamore fork, sticks to his seat like "death to a dead
nigger." And all the time trembling. Not without reason. For the
silence succeeding the short exclamatory speech has not re-assured him.
He believes it to be but a lull, denoting some pause in the action, and
that one, or both, of the actors is still upon the ground. If only one,
it will be his master, whose monologue was last heard. During the
stillness, somewhat prolonged, he continues to shape conjectures and put
questions to himself, as to what can have been the _fracas_, and its
cause. Undoubtedly a "shooting scrape" between Dick Darke and Charles
Clancy. But how has it terminated, or is the end yet come? Has one of
the combatants been killed, or gone away? Or have both forsaken the
spot where they have been trying to spill each other's blood?

While thus interrogating himself, a new sound disturbs the tranquillity
of the forest--the same, which the assassin at first fancied was the
voice of one wailing for his victim. The coon-hunter has no such
delusion. Soon as hearing, he recognises the tongue of a stag-hound,
knowing it to be Clancy's. He is only astray about its peculiar tone,
now quite changed. The animal is neither barking nor baying; nor yet
does it yelp as if suffering chastisement. The soft tremulous whine,
that comes pealing in prolonged reverberation through the trunks of the
cypresses, proclaims distress of a different kind--as of a dog asleep
and dreaming!

And now, once more a man's voice, his master's. It too changed in tone.
No longer in angry exclaim, or quiet conversation, but as if earnestly
entreating; the speech evidently not addressed to Clancy, but the hound.

Strange all this; and so thinks the coon-hunter. He has but little time
to dwell on it, before another sound waking the echoes of the forest,
interrupts the current of his reflections. Another shot! This time, as
twice before, the broad round boom of a smooth-bore, so different from
the short sharp "spang" of a rifle.

Thoroughly versed in the disti