“Not much,” replied Spangler, who was one of the paid scouts of the cantonment; “not much of that; I hav’n’t been far enough up the openin’ to make out what it means—only far enough to know that a man has been murdered.”
“What proof have you of what you say? Is there a dead body?”
“No. Not as much as the little finger; not even a hair of the head, so fur as I can see.”
“What then?”
“Blood, a regular pool of it—enough to have cleared out the carcass of a hull buffalo. Come and see for yourself. But,” continued the scout in a muttered undertone, “if you wish me to follow up the sign as it ought to be done, you’ll order the others to stay back—’specially them as are now nearest you.”
This observation appeared to be more particularly pointed at the planter and his nephew; as the tracker, on making it, glanced furtively towards both.
“By all means,” replied the major. “Yes, Spangler, you shall have every facility for your work. Gentlemen! may I request you to remain where you are for a few minutes. My tracker, here, has to go through a performance that requires him to have the ground to himself. He can only take me along with him.”
Of course the major’s request was a command, courteously conveyed, to men who were not exactly his subordinates. It was obeyed, however, just as if they had been; and one and all kept their places, while the officer, following his scout, rode away from the ground.
About fifty yards further on, Spangler came to a stand.
“You see that, major?” said he, pointing to the ground.