When they were out of the way, Douglas had talked awhile with Uncle Eb. To him he had told something of Steve’s condition, and from him he had learned that Marion already knew of the finding of her father’s body. In his straightforward way Uncle Eb had gone to the nearest place—the Oaks house—for the shovel, and had given her the news. She had said little—“acted ’most like she was expectin’ sumpthin’ like that,” Eb said—and gone at once to her mother.
“An’ now ’bout you, son,—ye better not stay into this place no longer,” the old man had concluded. “Come up an’ live ’long o’ me, don’t ye want to?”
But the anxious invitation was declined with thanks. Douglas had determined to do now something which more than once previously he had thought of doing—to remain awake all night and catch the ha’nt, if it could be caught. The presence of the thing in his house was a challenge to him; and if the phantom walked to-night, he vowed, he would smash it or himself be smashed. This intention, however, he kept to himself, merely saying that he had been unharmed thus far and knew no reason why he should not remain so.
So, bearing with him the quinine and other medicines which Douglas thought might be useful to Steve, the old man had gone back to the Oaks house and then home. Under the circumstances, Douglas himself did not feel like intruding just then on the girl and her mother; and the errand could be done just as well by Uncle Eb. And now, back to the wall and eyes lifting now and then to survey all around him, Hampton was toiling on the headboard. And the hot day was nearing its end.
Lucky, thrice lucky had been Steve’s refusal to accompany him home, he thought: lucky for Steve, for Marion, for himself. Alone, he had come back openly and opportunely. With Steve he would have come more slowly and furtively, and by that time the man-hunters might have been scouting around in the woods on an investigation tour—and promptly sprung on their prey. There would certainly have been a fight, and before it ended Hampton and even Marion might have outlawed themselves. Yes, it was lucky all around.
Leaning back, he inspected his handiwork, yawned, and clicked his knife shut. Nigger Nat’s monument was completed. Glancing through the open doorway at the lengthening shadows, he lifted his brows and pulled out his watch.
“Where’s the time gone?” he asked himself. “It’s almost sundown. Better rustle some grub and clear the decks for action against Mister Ha’nt. Hope this isn’t his night off. Do ha’nts work union hours, I wonder? Midnight to daybreak, maybe? Might get some sleep if I only knew. It’s going to be a long, long night.”
He yawned again, drowsy from the heavy heat of the day. When his supper was eaten and his pipe was going he yawned still more widely. Twilight now filled the great bowl outside—the oddly transparent twilight of early evening in the Traps, which lay in shadow while the sun still shone beyond the western heights. Next would come the grayish blur of true twilight, deepening gradually into night. And when dense darkness should enwrap all things and the evil man-killer of this house should begin to stir about—then what?
He arose, stretching and shaking himself to cast off his sleepiness. After a turn up and down the room he lifted his gun, ejected the shells, tested the firing-pins with a snap or two, looked carefully at the ammunition, and reloaded.
“Little old gun, you’ve been a real pal,” he soliloquized. “I bought you just because you looked good and because I thought I might get a bit of hunting somewhere up in this country before going back to town. Little did I think you’d save a girl and blow cats and dogs all to thunder and shoot at ha’nts——”