It may be that the Mississippian backwoodsman, Woodley, could give a better account of these singular excrescences than all the closet scientists in the world.
He is not thinking of either science, or his own superior knowledge, while conducting his companion to the side of that “cypress knee.” His only thought is to show Heywood something he had espied while passing it in the search; but of which he did not then appear to take notice, and said nothing, so long as surrounded by the other searchers.
The time has come to scrutinise it more closely, and ascertain if it be what he suspects it.
The “knee” in question is one which could not be palmed off for a porker’s ham. Its superior dimensions forbid the counterfeit. As the two hunters halt beside it, its bulk shows bigger than either of their own bodies, while its top is at the height of their heads.
Standing in front of it, Woodley points to a break in the bark—a round hole, with edge slightly ragged. The fibre appears freshly cut, and more than cut—encrimsoned! Twenty-four hours may have elapsed, but not many more, since that hole was made. So believe the backwoodsmen, soon as setting their eyes on it.
Speaking first, Woodley asks,—
“What d’ye think o’ it, Ned?”
Heywood, of taciturn habit, does not make immediate answer, but stands silently regarding the perforated spot. His comrade continues:—
“Thar’s a blue pill goed in thar’, which jedgin’ by the size and shape o’ the hole must a kum out a biggish gun barrel. An’, lookin’ at the red stain ’roun’ its edge, that pill must a been blood-coated.”
“Looks like blood, certainly.”