“Leave that to me. I’ve thought o’ a plan to git purssession o’ the scoundrel’s futwear, an’ everythin’ else belongin’ to him that kin throw a ray o’ daylight unto this darksome bizness. Come, Ned! Le’s go to the widder’s house, an’ see if we kin say a word to comfort the poor lady—for a lady she air. Belike enough this thing’ll be the death o’ her. She warn’t strong at best, an’ she’s been a deal weaker since the husban’ died. Now the son’s goed too—ah! Come along, an’ le’s show her, she ain’t forsook by everybody.”
With the alacrity of a loyal heart, alike leaning to pity, the young hunter promptly responds to the appeal, saying:—
“I’m with you, Woodley!”
Chapter Eighteen.
“To the sheriff!”
A day of dread, pitiless suspense to the mother of Charles Clancy, while they are abroad searching for her son.
Still more terrible the night after their return—not without tidings of the missing man. Such tidings! The too certain assurance of his death—of his murder—with the added mystery of their not having been able to find his body. Only his hat, his gun, his blood!