“Rite down by dat tree. His blood is all ober de ground; I jest see it.”
In an instant Nettleton had dashed off for the spot indicated. In accordance with an order from the colonel he was pursued. Reaching the locality named, he gazed upon the ground. It was red with blood—fresh blood. He threw himself upon the earth, and wept and moaned, and called upon his captain to return. His grief was terrible to behold. By this time the officers and many of the men had arrived. They gazed upon the grief-stricken servant with respect, and more than one expression of sympathy was heard.
“If Captain Hayward has been murdered, it was not by that boy. Nettleton loved his captain too much to harm him,” said Lieutenant Wells. “I am inclined to think the deed has been done by skulking guerrillas.”
“I incline to your opinion, Lieutenant Wells, as to the innocence of Nettleton. But, as to the deed having been done by guerrillas, it is not likely. It is much too near camp.”
“But Hayward certainly had no enemy in our camp who would have done this deed.”
“We do not know the secret motives which animate the human heart,” replied Walker, in a tone and manner not devoid of meaning.
“Let instant search be made for the body,” commanded the colonel. It was done, but no trace of it could be found, although the water was too shallow to have permitted it to float down the river. Attention was again directed to Nettleton, who was sitting erect, gazing at a piece of sharp, bloody steel which he held in his hand. Viewing it a moment, he sprung to his feet, and fixed his eyes upon Lieutenant Wells. Then he turned to the colonel and handed him the blade. That officer examined it. Directing his gaze upon Lieutenant Wells, he asked:
“Has any one among you a small Spanish dirk, with a highly-polished and ornamented blade?”
“I had such a one,” replied Wells, “but I have missed it for several days.”
The colonel instantly turned toward the camp, commanding all to follow him. He halted before the tent of Lieutenant Wells, and said: