“If I had told them, they’d have thought it more of my bragging,” laughed Rod shortly.
“I’ll tell them now.”
“Please don’t do it. I reckon I’ve satisfied them that I will fight when driven into a corner, and that’s enough. I’m still going to keep a tight hand on myself, for I must learn somehow to control my temper. I’ll own up it has hurt me some to know that the fellows should think me low down enough to shoot a harmless dog by way of getting revenge on an enemy. One thing I will claim, and that is that all Grants fight open and square and there never was a sneak among them. Sometime I’m sure the truth will come out concerning that dog shooting.”
It came out far sooner than Rod expected. On the following day Joshua Haskell, who owned the northern side of Turkey Hill, making certain purchases at Stickney’s store, heard some loungers discussing the shooting of Silver Tongue, and he suddenly developed a great deal of interest in what they were saying.
“What’s that?” he asked. “When did this ere dorg shootin’ happen?”
“Satterday, sometime before the storm begun,” answered Uncle Bill Cole. “The hound was killed in one of the clearin’s near the Pond Hole over on Waller’s land. Barker’s boy and two other young fellers follered the blood drops to that place, and then they tracked the whelp who did the shootin’ almost into the Turkey Hill swamp; but the storm come on, and they couldn’t foller him no further.”
“Huh!” grunted Haskell. “I guess I know who shot that dorg.”
“You do!” cried several voices.
“Yep,” nodded the man, “I cal’late I do. You see, I was cuttin’ wood on Turkey Hill Satterday mornin’. Just before the storm begun I happened to stop and look down, and I saw a boy come out of the woods on Dodd’s land, which j’ines mine. He had a gun, and he was travelin’ on snowshoes. A little while before that I’d heared somebody fire a shot over in the direction of the Pond Hole, and he was comin’ from that way. Seemed to be in a mighty big hurry, too; but all of a sudden he stopped a minute, and I see him hang something red on a bush. Then he hipered along again, as if he was afeared the Old Nick was chasin’ him.”
“Well, well!” cried Stickney, thumping the cheese box on the counter with his knuckles. “That must have been the feller. They found a red silk handkerchief that belonged to this yere Grant boy, who’s stopping with old Priscilla Kent.”