by Morgan Scott
CHAPTER XXIII.
FOLLOWING THE TRAIL.
Half an hour later, lying on a blanket in the stable, the dog breathedits last, while the three enraged and sorrowful lads stood looking on.Barker’s face was grim and bitter, his heart bursting with the wrathhis lips could find no words to express.
Springer drew Piper aside. “Who do you sus-suppose would do amiserable, dirty thing like that, Sleuth?” he asked in a whisper.
“Not having had time to investigate the affair thoroughly, I’m notfully prepared to answer your question, Phil; but my deduction is thatsome one shot the poor hound with malice aforethought, or words to thateffect.”
“It doesn’t require extreme perspicacity to arrive at that conclusion,”returned Springer sarcastically. “It was a low-down, murderous trick,and the contemptible sneak who did it ought to smart for it. The thingis to find out who it was.”
“Berlin isn’t popular. He has a number of enemies, and any one of thesebefore-mentioned enemies might have——”
“Not any one of them; only a fellow of the very lowest and most vicioustype would shoot a harmless dog in order to hurt the creature’s master.Of course I wouldn’t make any accusations—yet; but there are twofellows in town I’d suspect more than any one else.”
“In full and complete assurance of confidence, you may mention theirnames for my listening ear.”
“Oh, you can guess. I mean Lander and Davis.”
“H’m!” said Sleuth, leaning his chin on his clenched fist and puckeringhis brow into an expression of profound meditation and thought.“There’s yet another whose name has flashed comet-wise through my mind.”
“You mean——”
“Grant!” whispered Piper, straightening out his index finger andpressing it against his lips.
Phil shook his head. “No, Sleuth, I can’t think it of that fuf-fellow.As unpopular as Grant is, I don’t believe he’d do such a contemptiblething.”
“Perhaps not,” admitted Sleuth; “but it’s the method of greatdetectives to take every suspicious person into consideration. I’llstake my personal reputation on it that one of the three partiesmentioned is the culpable wretch. If you had seen what my eyes beheldover at Bunk Lander’s old camp on a certain dark and dismal night, ifyou had witnessed the venomous rage with which Rod Grant fastened hisclutches on the throat of said Lander, you might now be disposed tothink him capable even of such an act as this.”
“But Davis denied that story; he said there wasn’t a word of truth init.”
“And lied in his false throat,” growled Sleuth hoarsely. “I know what Isaw, and I likewise know that Mr. Grant and Mr. Lander have not been onparticularly friendly terms since that narrowly averted tragedy. On theother hand, the before-mentioned Davis and the before-said Grant havebeen very chummy indeed. Why, Davis has even called on Grant at thedomicile of Miss Priscilla Kent—called privately, secretly,surreptitiously, under cover of darkness.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh,” answered Sleuth, throwing out his chest, “I’ve been keeping avigilant and sleepless eye upon those parties.”
“But I can’t believe Grant would dud-do it,” persisted Springer. “Davismight, and he’s particularly sus-sore on Berlin since that littlemix-up at the academy Thursday.”
“Is it not possible—indeed, probable—that both these persons wereconcerned?”
“I won’t believe it of Rod Grant until I see pup-proof,” said Phil.
Barker, having thrown one end of the blanket over the body of the dog,stood frowning a few moments in the open stable door, then turnedsuddenly to the others.
“I’m going to follow that crimson trail,” he announced. “Will youfellows come along with me?”
“You bet,” answered Springer.
“Sure we will,” nodded Sleuth eagerly.
“Then get your snowshoes, Phil, for we may need them. Here are my oldones, which I loaned Rollins last Saturday; Piper can use those. Ishall take my gun.”
“You won’t nun-need a gun, will you?” faltered Springer.
“Can’t tell; I may. Hurry up after your snowshoes. We’ll be ready tostart by the time you get back.”
Phil went off at a run, while Berlin and Sleuth made preparations tostart out.
“My prediction is,” said Piper, “that we’ll have to hustle, for, if Imistake not, I see a feathery flake or two in the air already. It willbe snowing hard in less than an hour, something on which I’ll stake myprofessional reputation.”
Soon Springer returned, panting and flushed, bringing his snowshoes.They were waiting for him, Berlin having his shotgun tucked under hisarm. By this time the occasional snowflakes had grown more plentiful,and, in apprehension that the sanguine trail would soon be obliterated,they set forth with all possible haste.
For a short distance the crimson drops on the snow took them along themain highway, but presently they were led away across the fields towardthe distant woods. More than once they found a spot where SilverTongue, weakened and nearly exhausted, had lain for a few moments uponthe snow. Over a high ridge they went, and then, having to make morespeed across a drifted valley, they finally paused to step into theirsnowshoes. With each passing minute the snowflakes steadily grewthicker, but in the shelter of the woods this was hardly perceptible,and the red drops still guided them easily.
Few words were spoken; even Sleuth’s loquacious tongue was stilled.Their heart-beats quickened, they penetrated deeper and deeper into thewoods. To Piper it seemed like a genuine man hunt, descriptions ofwhich he had often perused with tingling nerves and intensesatisfaction in the favorite stories of his choice, and in his livelyimagination they were officers of the law pressing close at the heelsof a fleeing malefactor.
At times the evergreen thickets were so dense that they pressed throughthem with no small difficulty. Once the trail led through some whitebirches which stood gleaming like silent ghosts there in the shadows.They came out at last to the open meadows beyond the woods and foundthat it was now snowing so heavily that the next strip of timber couldbe but dimly seen, as through a veil.
“It’s no use,” muttered Springer; “this old snowstorm is going to balkus.”
Barker, his cap pulled low over his eyes and his body bent forward tocatch the occasional red stains which could still be seen through thefilm of snow that had already fallen, strode on without comment.
And then, at the very edge of the next timber, they found the spotwhere Silver Tongue had been shot. Beyond that there was no trail ofblood, but Piper, searching, quickly uttered a shout of satisfaction,bringing the others hurrying toward him.
“Here’s the scoundrel’s tracks!” cried Sleuth, pointing downward. “Hewas on snowshoes. He stood right here behind this bunch of cedars andfired at the dog.”
“No question about it,” agreed Barker grimly. “Now we must try tofollow the tracks.”
It quickly became evident that, after doing the shooting, the unknownhad made off in great haste, his long strides indicating this. Thetracks followed the edge of the woods for some distance and then turnedinto an old path, along which the pursuers were able to makeconsiderable speed—so much, indeed, that Sleuth, who had heretoforekept close at Barker’s heels, finally dropped, panting, behindSpringer. As he fell back Piper called a warning to Berlin.
“If we catch him, be careful what you do, Barker, old man; don’t loseyour head, for you’ve got a loaded gun in your hands.”
Berlin made no reply.
Suddenly the snowshoe trail turned sharply off the path, and once morethey found themselves pressing through tangled thickets. They came to aclearing, where there was a small, frozen, snow-buried pond, and thereit was no small matter, even then, to follow that snowshoe trail.
“Five or ten minutes in the open, and he will have us bub-baffled,”muttered Springer.
“He was making for the big swamp back of Turkey Hill,” panted Piperfrom the rear. “There’s
no shadow of doubt but he’s one of the threesuspects we mentioned, Phil; and I’m dead sure I know which one.”
Once more they brushed and crashed through bushes and low-hangingbranches. Finally, as they again came forth, Barker, amid a perfecttangle of brush, uttered a cry, pointing at something red which dangledfrom a branch.
“What is it?” questioned Springer.
“A handkerchief,” answered Berlin, securing it—“a silk handkerchief.Look here, fellows, I’ve seen this same handkerchief before. The chapwe’re after must have been wearing it round his neck. He didn’t noticewhen it slipped off or was pulled off by catching on that bush.”
“Let me look,” begged Phil eagerly. “By jove! I’ve sus-seen it beforemyself! I saw it tied round the neck of a fellow only last Saturday.”
“That’s right,” nodded Berlin triumphantly. “I’m glad you were there,Phil; I’m glad you saw it, too. The name of the miserable sneak whoowns this handkerchief is——”
“Rodney Grant,” finished Springer.
“My deduction was correct,” said Piper, well pleased with himself.“He’s the feller who shot Silver Tongue.”
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