On the edge of Owl Marsh Clinch halted in the trail, and, as his men came up, he counted them with a cold eye.
"Here's the runway and this here hazel bush is my station," he said. "You fellas do the barkin'. You, Sid Hone, and you, Corny, start drivin' from the west. Harvey, you yelp 'em from the north by Lynx Brook. Jim and Byron, you get twenty minutes to go 'round to the eastward and drive by the Slide. And you, Hal Smith," — he looked around — "where 'n hell be you, Hal?——"
Smith came up from the bog's edge.
"Send 'em out," he said in a low voice. "I've got Jake's tracks in the bog."
Clinch motioned his beaters to their duty. "Twenty minutes," he reminded Hone, Chase, and Blommers, "before you start drivin'." And, o the Hastings boys: "If you shoot, aim low for their bellies. Don't leave on blood around. Scrape it up. We bury what we get."
He and Smith stood looking after the five slouching figures moving away toward their blind trails. When all had disappeared:
"Show me Jake's mark," he said calmly.
Smith led him to the edge of the bog, knelt down, drew aside a branch of witch-hopple. A man's footprint was plainly visible in the mud.
"That's Jake," said Clinch slowly. "I know them half-soled boots o' hisn." He lifted another branch. "There's another man's track!"
"The other is probably Leverett's."