She had asked him, of course, about his success in hunting the ha’nt; indeed, she had shown unmistakable relief when he rambled into her yard the next day to ask whether “Spit got home all right.” In pursuance of his decision to keep hidden for the present the annihilation of Dalton’s Death, he had answered evasively, telling her truth but not all of the truth: that Spit had torn madly about in an effort to escape, that the door had swung open later on and the cat had run out, that he himself had tired of watching and fallen asleep on his blankets. “And you can see for yourself,” he concluded, “that nothing gobbled me.”
And since then he had been steadily seeking Sanders. He had changed his hunting-ground now from the vicinity of Snake’s shack to a section nearer his own house—the long wall of Dickie Barre. Thither he had been led by an idea of his own, and there he worked day after day with a grim persistence equalling that of Ward and Bill, coupled with a methodical thoroughness which they might well have emulated.
The germ of his idea was the recollection of his first meeting with Steve and of Marion’s production of the jug which, she said, belonged to Snake. She had not gone far that morning to get that jug. So, starting from the well-remembered crack among the bowlders where his camp had been, he now delved into every crevice and cavern within a radius of a few minutes’ traveling time from that focal point.
He found snakes, but none with legs. In one gloomy passageway leading inward he was halted by a rustle among leaves just ahead. His ears telling him that the sound was too slight to be made by stealthily moving feet, he hazarded the light of a match—and found himself in a den of copperheads. The deadly reptiles had abandoned the well-watered lower lands and sought higher ground to bed themselves down for the coming winter, and now they lay in a sluggish knot, nearly buried among the leaves. Their lifted heads and unwinking stare, however, showed that they were by no means too numb to attack; and Douglas, though well booted to the knee, had no desire to tread among them. Moreover, the presence of the reptiles and the untrodden appearance of the leaves virtually proved that no man was beyond. Wherefore he withdrew.
In other recesses farther north he found, at times, evidence of the occasional visits of men, clandestine or otherwise; the mute testimony of charred fagots and smutted stone, of scrapes on rock and of indentations showing that weighty things had stood for some time in certain spots. These traces, however, all indicated bygone activities, not recent occupancy. Whatever had been carried on in those crevices and culs-de-sac, both the equipment and the products now had vanished. Whether the evanishment was due to the fact that the Law still prowled about was a question which did not concern the silent hunter. He was looking for a man, one man; and, not finding that man or his lair, he moved on without delay.
Then came an unexpected impetus to his search. One afternoon, as he was threading his way around a bulk of detritus which obviously contained no opening, a drab figure detached itself from a massive tree-trunk near at hand. He looked into the foxy face of the little cooper, David McCafferty.
“Jest a-layin’ for a couple o’ squir’ls,” Davy explained his presence. “Havin’ any luck?”
“Not yet. I’m hunting—snakes.”
A shrewd nod and a glance around followed. In a hoarse whisper the barrel-maker informed him: “I hearn ther’s a bad one—wust one round here—been seen down ’long here a piece. Mebbe ’bout haff a mile or so down. I dunno nothin’ ’bout it. But ther’ might be somethin’ into it.”
With another quick look around, he retreated to his tree. Douglas, without trying to render unwanted thanks, waved a hand and went on. A little later he heard behind him two roaring gunshots, and hoped Davy had bagged both his squirrels.