He was not surprised at their bringing him out into the avenue—close to the pool of blood—by the coyotés long since licked dry.
He might have traced them right up to it, but for the hundreds of horse tracks that had trodden the ground like a sheep-pen.
But before going so far, he was stayed by the discovery of some fresh “sign”—too interesting to be carelessly examined. In a place where the underwood grew thick, he came upon a spot where a man had remained for some time. There was no turf, and the loose mould was baked hard and smooth, evidently by the sole of a boot or shoe.
There were prints of the same sole leading out towards the place of blood, and similar ones coming back again. But upon the branches of a tree between, Zeb Stump saw something that had escaped the eyes not only of the searchers, but of their guide Spangler—a scrap of paper, blackened and half-burnt—evidently the wadding of a discharged gun!
It was clinging to the twig of a locust-tree, impaled upon one of its spines!
The old hunter took it from the thorn to which, through rain and wind, it had adhered; spread it carefully across the palm of his horny hand; and read upon its smouched surface a name well known to him; which, with its concomitant title, bore the initials, “C.C.C.”