“Thar’s no use goin’ now,” answers the son of the horse-dealer. “That is, for the savin’ of him. If nobody else has been thar since we left, why then the nigger’s dead—dead as pale Caesar.”
“Do you think any one might have come along in time to save him?”
This question is asked with an eagerness in which all are sharers. They would be rejoiced to think it could be answered in the affirmative.
“There might,” replies Randall, catching at the slight straw of hope. “The trace runs through the glade, right past the spot. A good many people go that way. Some one might have come along in time. At all events, we should go back and see. It can’t make things any worse.”
“Yes; we had better go back,” assents the son of the planter; and then to strengthen the purpose, “we’d better go for another purpose.”
“What, Alf?” ask several.
“That’s easily answered. If the Indian’s hung himself, we can’t help it.”
“You’ll make it appear suicide? You forget that we tied his left arm. It would never look like it. He couldn’t have done that himself!”
“I don’t mean that,” continues Brandon.
“What, then?”