"Ye ain't yerself to-day, ma'am. Yer troubles have got onto yer brain. Yer thoughts have got the better of yer judgment, so to speak."
"What d'ye mean by that, Bruce Hart? Be ye tryin' to make me out a loony? Well, ye best quit right now! My troubles have nigh broke my heart, but my mind's as good as ever it was an' I know what I'm about. Take me along to Amos Hammond, an' ye'll soon see whether I be cracked or sane. I'll tell 'im how it was me who shot 'im, an' why; an' if he puts the law onto me, then I'll tell the jedge why I done it. But he won't put the law onto me, never fear! Where'd he be then, him an' his psalm-singin', if I was to git up in front of a jedge an' jury an' tell all I know about 'im? All ye got to do's take me to 'im an' see if he dare make a charge agin me. Do ye dooty, Sheriff!"
Old Hercules began to chuckle and slap his knee.
"She be right," he exclaimed. "Dead right. She knows what she's about; an' she knowed what she was about when she pulled the trigger. She got Amos Hammond by the short hair, whatever way ye take it! Fetch her back here as soon's she's had her little say to Amos. There be a plate an' a chair an' a bed for her under this roof as long as she wants to use 'em."
Twenty minutes later, the sheriff and the cheerful widow drove amiably off together. Ten minutes after that, Flora left the house, stealthily by way of the seldom-used front door. She carried a pack and a shotgun and snowshoes, and was clothed for both warmth and action. She made a cautious detour of the farmstead before pausing to slip her feet into the toe-straps of the snowshoes and tie the leather thongs. The two dogs came leaping and yelping about her; and, after a moment's hesitation, she decided to let them accompany her. Then she and the enthusiastic dogs struck westward in Jim Todhunter's tracks. A light drift of snow had obliterated the tracks in open places, but in the lee of thickets and in the woods they were deep and plain.
Flora carried food, blankets, and a belt ax in her pack. She traveled at a good pace for half an hour, after which the weight of the pack began to tell on her, but she held anxiously on her way. The sun went down behind the black forests of the west, and a rind of new moon and many white stars did their best to replace it; and the girl hoisted the pack higher and continued to advance. Soon after the setting of the sun, a wind started up and set the dry snow running in open places and awoke many weird voices among the harsh spires of the spruces and in the crowns of tall pines. Flora was glad that she had allowed the dogs to come along with her. The dogs ceased their hunting of rabbits to right and left after the sun went down and kept to the trail of Jim's snowshoes. The trail was all in the forest now, under shaking branches, in a whispering gloom pierced here and there by a rift of pale shine.
Flora was not accustomed to carrying a pack and she had to drop it at last. She made a shelter in the heart of a thicket of young firs, built a good fire, cut small boughs for her bed, fed the dogs, ate her own cold supper and rolled herself in three double blankets. But several hours passed before sleep came to her. It was her first night in the woods and, warm as she was, she shivered continually, and a creeping chill played on the nape of her neck at every rush and whisper and sly footfall of wind and wood and frosty snow. But her conscience disturbed her even more than her fears. At last she fell asleep, with a big dog curled on either side.
It was close upon supper time when Mrs. Ducat went to Flora's room and discovered her absence. A note on the dressing table said:
"I have gone to look for Jim. Don't worry."
The grandfathers toddled forth and took a look around by lantern-light but the tracks of the snowshoes were already drifted full. They agreed that both Jim and the girl had gone north and that, as they had plenty of grub, there was nothing to worry about.