“Shot hyar for sartin. Yes; thar’s the score o’ the bullet arter it had passed through the varmint’s brainpan; an’ thar’s the shoe track o’ him as fired the shot. No boy that; but a full growed man! Who the durnation hez been trespassin’ ’mong my peach trees?”
He bent down over the track, and carefully scrutinised them. Then rising erect, he followed them to the bank of the creek, where he saw the same footprints, more conspicuously outlined in the mud.
“Stranger for sartin!” muttered he; “no sich futmark as that ’beout these settlements—not as I know on. Who the durnation kin it a-been?”
It was strange he should take so much trouble about a circumstance so slight; or show such anxiety to discover who had been the intruder. He was evidently uneasy about something of more importance to him than the trespass among his peach trees.
“That gurl must a heerd the shot plainer than she’s been tellin’ me o’, an’ seed more’n she’s confessed to. Thar’s somethin’ on her mind, I hain’t been able to make out any how. She shall be put thro’ a chapter o’ kattykism.”
“Lena, gurl!” he continued, going back towards the porch, still occupied by his daughter; “d’ye mean to say ye seed nobody beout hyar to-day?”
“I see some one now,” said she; by the rarest bit of good luck enabled to evade giving an answer to the question.
“See some un now! Whar?”
“There, a friend of yours, coming along the lane.”
“Alf Brandon!” exclaimed the old hunter, hurrying forth to receive the individual then announced; and who, astride a sleek horse, was seen riding leisurely in the direction of the house.