One taking up the hat, another the abandoned gun, they scatter off, proceeding in diverse directions.
For several hours they go tramping among the trees, peering under the broad fan-like fronds of the saw-palmettoes,
groping around the buttressed trunks of the cypresses, sending glances into the shadowed spaces between—in short, searching everywhere.
For more than a mile around they quarter the forest, giving it thorough examination. The swamp also, far as the treacherous ooze will allow them to penetrate within its gloomy portals—fit abode of death—place appropriate for the concealment of darkest crime.
Notwithstanding their zeal, prompted by sympathising hearts, as by a sense of outraged justice, the day’s search proves fruitless—bootless. No body can be found, dead or living; no trace of the missing man. Nothing beyond what they have already obtained—his hat and gun.
Dispirited, tired out, hungry, hankering after dinners delayed, as eve approaches they again congregate around the gory spot; and, with a mutual understanding to resume search on the morrow, separate, and set off—each to his own home.