The explosive voice of Eb himself came to him. It broke from the brushy land on the other side of the road, mingled with sounds of progress through thick going.
“—Jest like Jake Dalton,” it was saying, “jest like I’m a-tellin’ ye. Hampton never had no hand into this, though I wouldn’t blame him none s’posin’ he had—— Wal! thar he is now!”
From the brush emerged Eb and two others: the man-hunters, Ward and Bill. All were chewing tobacco furiously. All looked pale.
“What’s wrong?” Douglas sharply demanded.
“Wrong! Good gosh, son, is yer nose stopped? It’s Nat!”
Dumb, the blond man gaped at the three. Ward and Bill were eyeing him keenly. Uncle Eb pulled off his hat, mopped his brow on a sleeve, squirted a mouthful of brown juice, and went on barking.
“Jest like Jake Dalton! He’s up into the bresh—’side the brook—face down an’ deader’n—wal, ’most as dead as Jake. He’s been ther’ three-four days, these fellers think—ever sence he run outen yer house that night he left his cawn-hook. An’ this hot weather to-day—wugh! I ain’t a-goin’ to High Falls to-day after all. I’m a-goin’ right back home soon’s we—— Have ye got a shovel? Nat needs a shovel powerful bad.”
“What happened to him?” Somehow Douglas knew the answer already, but he had to ask.
“What happened to Jake Dalton? I dunno. But he’s jest like Jake—swelled up awful, an’ not a mark onto him—no gunshot, no knife, no nawthin’—jest dead! Ther’s sumpthin’ into that house o’ yourn, son—that ha’nt or sumpthin’, I dunno—that kilt him jest the same’s it kilt Jake. He run into the bresh an’ fell down an’ died same’s Jake done. Have ye got that shovel?”
“No.”