The hunter, Woodley, is among the foremost to be in at the death; for death all expect it to prove. They are sure of it, on seeing the stag-hound stop beside something, as it does so loudly baying.
Spurring on towards the spot, they expect to behold the dead body of Charles Clancy. They are disappointed.
There is no body there—dead or alive. Only a pile of Spanish moss, which appears recently dragged from the trees; then thrown into a heap, and afterwards scattered.
The hound has taken stand beside it; and there stays, giving tongue. As the horsemen dismount, and get their eyes closer to the ground, they see something red; which proves to be blood. It is dark crimson, almost black, and coagulated. Still is it blood.
From under the edge of the moss-heap protrudes the barrel of a gun. On kicking the loose cover aside, they see it is a rifle—not of the kind common among backwoodsmen. But they have no need to waste conjecture on the gun. Many present identify it as the yäger usually carried by Clancy.
More of the moss being removed, a hat is uncovered—also Clancy’s. Several know it as his—can swear to it.
A gun upon the ground, abandoned, discharged as they see; a hat alongside it; blood beside both—there must have been shooting on the spot—some one wounded, if not actually killed? And who but Charles Clancy? The gun is his, the hat too, and his must be the blood.
They have no doubt of its being his, no more of his being dead; the only question asked is “Where’s his body?”
While those first up are mutually exchanging this interrogatory, others, later arriving, also put it in turn. All equally unable to give a satisfactory answer—alike surprised by what they see, and puzzled to explain it.
There is one man present who could enlighten them in part, though not altogether—one who comes lagging up with the last. It is Richard Darke.