In his dark riding-dress, standing with his gloved hand upon the table, he gave in look and attitude a suggestion of formality, a subtle conveyance of determination. He had been speaking, and now, after an interruption from one of the brothers, he continued. "That was two weeks ago. I have it clear, and I have my witness. The murderer, leaving the body of my brother beside Indian Run, turned his horse, and, at a point just east of the rock where grows the mountain ash, he quitted the road for the mountain-side. It is desperate riding over that ridge, but he made it as, two weeks ago, I made it, and he came out, as I came out, upon the high bank above the main road, a few yards below the blasted oak. That, Colonel Churchill, is what he did, and what a jury shall see that he did."
Colonel Dick let fall his hand. "Fair, Fair, I never gainsaid that he was a villain—"
"He appeared," continued the younger man, "before my witness, torn and breathless. There was blood upon his sleeve. Now see what he does. He rejoins his negro, and, if I know my man, he intimidates this boy into silence like the grave. Together they pause at Red Fields, a precaution that quite naturally suggests itself to the lawyer mind. But it is in the gloom of the storm, and he does not dismount—a course which, again, he knows to be wise. Apparently Red Fields notices nothing. He rides on. But he has yet to pass through town, to be accosted here, there, at the Eagle, the post-office, to be forced, perhaps, under peril of his refusal being scanned, to get down from his horse, answer questions, drink and talk with acquaintances. He is torn, dishevelled. There is blood upon his sleeve. What does he think as he rides from Red Fields? He thinks, 'Where can I best put myself in order, and remove this witness?' That would be his thought, and he would have the answer ready. He rode on to the edge of town, and there he stopped at Tom Mocket's."
Major Edward left the window. As he passed his brother, he laid for a moment his hand upon the elder's shoulder. The touch was protective, almost tender. "It's a rough wind, Dick! Bow your head and let it go over." He marched away, dragged a chair to the table, and sat down. "Very well," he said. "He stopped at Tom Mocket's."
"Yes, but not merely at the gate, as he testified. He went into the house, and there he washed the blood-stain from his sleeve."
"Can you prove that?"
"I can prove that he went into the house. A negro, running from the storm, saw him enter. When that girl—Vinie Mocket—is put upon the stand, I expect to prove the remainder. Now, the pistol—"
Colonel Dick rose, walked heavily to the glass door, then back to the hearth. "You stand there, as I have seen your father stand. Well, go on! We are men, Edward and I."
"His pistols are handsome ones, the gift of Mr. Jefferson. The murderer's name is engraved upon them. He has made, since September, a number of journeys, and he travels always with holsters to his saddle. Well, not long ago, I bribed the hostler of a tavern where I knew he was to sleep. I have seen the arms he carries. Two holsters, two pistols—but the latter do not match! A different maker, a heavier weight, and the owner's name but indifferently etched. And yet there is in Richmond a man who will swear to Mr. Rand's leaving town with the President's gift intact! The inference is, I think, that somewhere between Indian Run and Roselands the weapon vanished—how and when and where I have yet to find. I expect to recover it, and in the mean time I expect to force an explanation of those mismatched pistols."
He had been standing without motion—manner, voice, and attitude restrained and somewhat formal. He now moved, took his hand from the table, and folded his arms. "I came," he said, "to tell you, Colonel Churchill, and you, Major Edward, you who were my brother's friends and my father's friends, I came to tell you that I shall apply for and obtain a warrant for the arrest of Lewis Rand."