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Leaving
his
critter
to
occupy
the
"
stall
"
where
broken-shoe
had
for
some
time
fretted
himself
,
the
old
hunter
glided
off
upon
the
footmarks
of
the
dismounted
rider
.
He
soon
discovered
two
sets
of
them
--
one
going
--
another
coming
back
.
He
followed
the
former
.
He
was
not
surprised
at
their
bringing
him
out
into
the
avenue
--
close
to
the
pool
of
blood
--
by
the
coyotés
long
since
licked
dry
He
might
have
traced
them
right
up
to
it
,
but
for
the
hundreds
of
horse
tracks
that
had
trodden
the
ground
like
a
sheep-pen
.
But
before
going
so
far
,
he
was
stayed
by
the
discovery
of
some
fresh
"
sign
"
--
too
interesting
to
be
carelessly
examined
.
In
a
place
where
the
underwood
grew
thick
,
he
came
upon
a
spot
where
a
man
had
remained
for
some
time
.
There
was
no
turf
,
and
the
loose
mould
was
baked
hard
and
smooth
,
evidently
by
the
sole
of
a
boot
or
shoe
.
There
were
prints
of
the
same
sole
leading
out
towards
the
place
of
blood
,
and
similar
ones
coming
back
again
.
But
upon
the
branches
of
a
tree
between
,
Zeb
Stump
saw
something
that
had
escaped
the
eyes
not
only
of
the
searchers
,
but
of
their
guide
Spangler
--
a
scrap
of
paper
,
blackened
and
half-burnt
--
evidently
the
wadding
of
a
discharged
gun
!
It
was
clinging
to
the
twig
of
a
locust-tree
,
impaled
upon
one
of
its
spines
!
The
old
hunter
took
it
from
the
thorn
to
which
,
through
rain
and
wind
,
it
had
adhered
;
spread
it
carefully
across
the
palm
of
his
horny
hand
;
and
read
upon
its
smouched
surface
a
name
well
known
to
him
;
which
,
with
its
concomitant
title
,
bore
the
initials
,
"
C.C.C.
"
It
was
less
surprise
,
than
gratification
,
that
showed
itself
on
the
countenance
of
Zeb
Stump
,
as
he
deciphered
the
writing
on
the
paper
.
