At least the chances were the old shotgun was not loaded, as it was used only for hunting.
The hunters crouched low and circled the Doyle house, crawling through the timber and the brush.
A hundred yards from the stable, a dog barked. Owen had carefully marked this dog on the day of the survey. He was merely a faithful yellow cur which Doyle had brought from Virginia. He looked about seven years old. If crossed he might put up a nasty fight. If approached with friendly word by a voice he had once heard, the rest would be easy.
The signal was given to halt. The hunters paused and stood still in their tracks. Owen had taken pains to be friendly with this dog on the day of the survey. He had called him a number of times and had given him a piece of bread from his pocket. He was sure he could manage him.
In a low tone he whistled and called the dog by name. He had carefully recalled it.
"Jack!"
He listened intently and heard the soft step of a paw rustling the leaves. The plan was working.
The dog pushed his way into an open space in the brush and stopped.
The hunter called softly:
"Jack, old boy!"