“Guesswork,” said Hooker.
“Deduction, reasoning, sound judgment,” flung back Sleuth, as he hurried to examine the top rail of the old slat fence upon the northern side of the street; “and here’s my proof—a smooch of blood where the man grasped the rail as he vaulted over the fence.”
“Jinks!” breathed Roy, gazing at the sanguine mark. “You’re right; it’s there.”
Beyond the fence Piper continued northward, bending forward that he might search the ground with his eyes. Again and again he pointed to frozen blood-drippings upon the grass, and, at Sleuth’s heels, Roy felt his pulse throbbing with a touch of the fierce excitement that invariably seizes upon one who hunts fleeing men. For the first time in his life he was beginning to believe that Piper had been underestimated by those who had scoffed at his ambition to become a great detective.
Across High Street and into the neglected, old-fashioned horse sheds at the rear of the Methodist church the two boys followed the trail. In one of those sheds there was a little pool of blood, surrounded by similar drippings, at which Hooker stared in great fascination.
“He stopped here,” asserted Sleuth. “Concealed by the darkness, he hid in this shed for some little time. Perhaps he was led to do this through exhaustion caused by the wound. Perhaps he did so because he heard citizens running down Main Street toward the bank.”
“Gee!” said Roy, giving himself a shake. “If he’s hurt bad, we’re liable to come on him any minute. Why, we might have found him here, and perhaps he’d filled us full of lead. It’s ticklish business, Pipe.”
“He won’t be liable to fight unless cornered, and if we corner him we must get him foul so he can’t pot us. Come on; time is precious.”
As if the flow from the wound had been partly staunched, the trail now became decidedly more difficult to follow. Nevertheless, Sleuth traced it to upper Main Street, some distance below the home of Urian Eliot. There it again led across the road and into the broad fields beyond. Through the midst of these fields ran a tiny brook, the banks of which were lined by scattering clumps of bushes. Here the brown grass was rather tall, and the boys followed the man’s tracks with little difficulty. At the point where the fugitive had started to cross the brook a clay bank some three feet in height had caved beneath his feet.
“He took a tumble here,” said Piper. “There’s where he got on his pins again. See his tracks, Hook?”