Shrewder than those of unthinking haste, the sheriff permitted the excited crowd to go ahead, that his plans would not be interfered with. Then, with his deputies and a bloodhound, he went to the scene of the murder. There he found a sprinkling of blood on the ground, and the imprints of the heavy shoes in the moist earth showed the direction which the murderer had taken. He quickly drew the hound’s nose to the trail and cheered him on. The dark, savage beast was wonderful at trailing, and had more than once overtaken fleeing criminals. He sniffed intelligently for a few minutes, then gave an eager yelp and plunged along the road, made an abrupt turn, then struck down through a narrow hollow, deep and dark. The men put spurs to their horses and dashed after him, heedless of the thorns that tore and reckless of sharp blows from matted undergrowth and low-lying boughs.
The hound, with his deep guide-note, despite their efforts, was soon far ahead; his lithe, long body close to the earth, leaving no scent untouched.
The trail led through what is known as “Robbers’ Hollow,” a ravine that runs in a trough through the winding hills, whose rugged sides looked jagged and terrible, surrounded by a savage darkness full of snares, where it was fearful to penetrate and appalling to stay. In spite of all, they hurried on faster and faster.
Far ahead the pilot note of the hound called them on and they were well nigh exhausted when they came upon him, baying furiously at a cabin built on the naked side of a hill, around which there was not a tree or bush to shelter a man from bullets, should the occupants resist arrest. As the sheriff and his men arrived, the hound flung his note in the air and sent up a long howl, then dashed against the door, which shook and strained from the shock.
The sheriff called him to heel and placed his men at corners of the cabin. He then rapped on the door and repeated it half a dozen times before there was a response. Finally a man came to the front.
“Who wants me this time of night?” he grumbled, in a deep, gruff voice, as he stood in the doorway, his broad chest and arms showing strongly dark in the light of the lamp he held.
“I do,” answered the sheriff. “Do you live here?”
“No, sir.”
“When did you come here, and from where?”
“From the other side of Georgetown, and I got here ’bout an hour before dark.”