“Wal, I’ll go borry one. Glad to git away a few minutes. Hoss, c’m’ere! Whoa! G’yapalong!”
With an apprehensive backward look at the house the agitated old fellow was off. The man-hunters spat in unison, never taking their eyes off Douglas, who still stared at the brush. Mechanically he got out his pipe, loaded it, lit it, and puffed.
“Well, fellows,” he said presently, “this is news to me. I’ve been hunting this Nat Oaks—he was the one I suspected of knifing my dummy—but I didn’t finish him. Looks bad for me, perhaps, but——”
“You’re in the clear,” cut in Ward. “We might make out a case if we tried hard enough, but we ain’t tryin’. If the stiff had wounds on him you might have some explainin’ to do; and we’re goin’ to do some lookin’ round, anyhow. But unless somethin’ new turns up we’ll leave the thing lay as it is.”
Douglas nodded and reluctantly stepped toward the hidden brook. The other two remained where they were.
A short distance in from the road he found Nigger Nat. He was stark naked, his clothing having been cut from him by the pocket-knives of the officers in their search for wounds. Feet, hands, and face were mired by the mud in which he had expired; and the gross face now was a bloated mask of bestiality. Nowhere on the torso was any mark.
Douglas took one rapid, comprehensive look. Then he retired hastily to the road, where he reloaded his hot pipe and awaited the return of Uncle Eb. Wordless, two chewing and one smoking, the trio of city men stood regarding the haunted house.
The ha’nt, which of late Douglas had carelessly regarded as a sort of joke, was a joke no longer. With his own eyes he had just looked on the horrid handiwork of the grisly thing which stalked within those walls by night. What was it? Why had it not closed its fearful grip on his own throat? How long before it would do so?
Perhaps Jake Dalton and Nat Oaks knew the answer to the ghastly riddle. But their lips were sealed for all time.