As they made their way drearily back toward the Woodruff Gate, the officer broke a long silence: 186
“Only a blood-hound can trail them!”
The gloom of Uncle Dick’s expression did not lighten.
“They hain’t nary one in the mountings,” he answered, heavily.
“None nearer than Suffolk, Virginia,” the marshal said. “Cyclone Brant has a couple of good ones. But it would cost a lot.”
The old man flared.
“Fer God’s sake, git thet-thar feller an’ his dawgs. I hain’t axin’ what hit ’ll cost. Hit was my money got thet-thar damned cuss out o’ the jail-house. I hain’t likely to begrudge anythin’ hit ’ll cost to git him kotched. An’ Plutiny!—why, money don’t matter none, if I can save Plutiny!”
“I’ll send for Brant to-night,” the marshal promised, with new cheerfulness. “Let’s hope he’s not off somewhere. They send for him all over the country. If the dogs start day after to-morrow, they’ll still find the scent.”
Uncle Dick groaned.
“An’ her a-lyin’ out with thet-thar wolf all thet while,” he mumbled, in despair. “Mebby, this very minute, she’s a-screamin’—callin’ to her ole gran’pap to save her. My Plutiny!” He walked with lagging steps; the tall form, usually so erect, was bowed under the burden of tormenting fears. The 187 marshal, understanding, ventured no word of comfort.