Silently Creed drew back into the dense undergrowth. He knew where he was, now. As he retreated swiftly in the opposite direction from that in which Jeff had approached, he could vaguely hear the excited voices at the still, questioning, replying, denouncing, exclaiming. Presently he came out upon the main trail, rounded the Gulch, heading for the big road and Nancy Card’s cabin, his soul sick within him at the events of the evening, bitterly regretting the explicit and unwelcome knowledge of the secret still which had been forced upon him, feeling himself now a spy indeed—a spy and a murderer.
He walked with long nervous strides; beaten and bruised though he was, he was unconscious of fatigue; the grief and regret that surged within him were as an anodyne to physical pain, and it was less than half an hour later that he opened the door of Nancy Card’s cabin, his white face scratched and bleeding, his torn hands, too, covered with blood, his clothing rent and earth-stained, his eyes wild and pain-bright.
“Good Lord, boy! What’s the matter with ye?” cried the old woman, coming toward him in terror, both hands out. “I sot up for ye, ’caze Pony he jest come from Hepzibah an’ said that spiled-rotten Andy an’ that feisty Jeff ’lowed ye was a spy an’ they was a-goin’ to run ye out of the Turkey Tracks.”
She laid hold of him and examined him with anxious eyes.
“I was plumb werried about ye. I knowed in reason they was a-goin’ to be trouble at that fool play-party.”
“No, I ain’t hurt, Aunt Nancy,” said Creed desolately, and he stared past her at the wall. “But looks to me like I’m cursed. I meant so well——” He choked on the word. “I’d just had a talk with—She said—we—I thought that everything was about to come right. And now—I’ve killed Blatch Turrentine, and I’ve just got away from the others. They was all after me.”