"We found him, William, right spang in front of Ike Varner's cabin--right thar, an' nowhar else. He war doin' his level best for to git on his feet, an' he tried to talk, but not more than two or three words did he say."

"Well, what did he say?" inquired Mr. Sanders.

"It was the same thing ever' time--'Why, Tolliver, Tolliver'--them was his very words."

"Are you right certain about that, Mahlon?" asked Mr. Sanders.

"As certain an' sh.o.r.e, William, as I am that I'm settin' here. Ef he said it once, he said it a dozen times."

"I reckon maybe he had been talking with young Tolliver before he came from town," remarked Mrs. b.u.t.ts, noting Mr. Sanders's serious countenance.

"Whar was he wounded, Becky?" asked Mr. Sanders.

"Between the left ear and the temple."

"Becky's right, William," was the solemn comment of Mahlon. "Yes, sir, he was. .h.i.t betwixt the year an' the temple."

"Did you have a doctor?"

"We sent for one, but if he come, we never saw him," Mrs. b.u.t.ts replied.

"Would you uv believed it, William? An' yit it's the plain truth," said Mahlon.

"What time was Hotchkiss killed?"

"'Bout half-past ten; maybe a little sooner."

This was all the information Mr. Sanders could get, and it was a great deal more than he wanted in one particular. He knew that Gabriel Tolliver was innocent of the killing; but the fact that his name was called by the dying man was almost as damaging as an ante-mortem accusation would have been.

Mr. Sanders rode to Ike Varner's cabin, a few hundred yards away. Tying his horse to the fence on the opposite side of the road, he entered the house without ceremony.

"Who is that? La! Mr. Sanders, you sho did skeer me," exclaimed Edie.

"Why, when did you come? I would as soon have spected to see a ghost!"

"You'll see 'em here before you're much older," replied Mr. Sanders, grimly. "They ain't fur off. Wher's Ike?"

"La! ef you know anything about Ike you know more than I does. I ain't laid eyes on that n.i.g.g.e.r man, not sence----" She paused, and looked at Mr. Sanders with a smile.

"Not sence the night Hotchkiss was killed," said Mr. Sanders, completing her sentence for her.

"La, Mr. Sanders! how'd you know that? But it's the truth: I ain't never seen Ike sence that night."

"I know a heap more'n you think I do," Mr. Sanders remarked. "Hotchkiss was talkin' to you at the gate thar when he was shot. What was he sayin'?"

The woman was a bright mulatto, and, remembering her own designs and desires so far as Hotchkiss was concerned, her face flushed and she turned her eyes away. "Why, he wan't sayin' a word, hardly; I was doin'

all the talkin'. I was settin' on the step there, an' I seen him pa.s.sin', an' hollad at him. I ast him if he wouldn't have a drink of cold water, an' he said he would, an' I took it out to the gate, an'

while I was talkin', they shot him. They certainly did."

"Did you ask Ike about it?" Mr. Sanders inquired.

"La! I ain't seen Ike sence that night," exclaimed Edie, flirting her ap.r.o.n with a coquettish air that was by no means unbecoming.

"Now, Edie," said Mr. Sanders, with a frown to match the severity of his voice, "you know as well as I do, that when you heard the pistol go off, and saw what had happened, you run in the house an' flung your apern over your head." It was a wild guess, but it was close to the truth.

"La, Mr. Sanders! you talk like you was watchin' me. 'Twa'n't my apern, 'twas my han's. I didn't have on no apern that night; I had on my Sunday frock."

"An' you know jest as well as I do that Ike come in here an' stood over you, an' said somethin' to you."

"No, sir; he didn't stand over me; I was here"--she ill.u.s.trated his position by her movements--"an' when Ike come in, he stood over there."

"What did he say?"

"He said," replied Edie, smiling to show her pretty teeth, "'If you want him, go out there an' git him.' Yes, sir, he said that. La! I never heard of a n.i.g.g.e.r killin' a white man on _that_ account; did you, Mr.

Sanders?"

"I don't know as I ever did," replied Mr. Sanders, regarding her with an expression akin to pity. "But times has changed."

"They certainly has," said Edie. "I tell you what, Mr. Sanders, I don't b'live Mr. Hotchkiss was a man." She looked up at Mr. Sanders, as she made the remark. Catching his eye, she exclaimed--"I don't; I declare I don't! I never will believe it." She gave a chirruping laugh, as she made the remark.

It is to be doubted if, in the history of the world, a man ever had a higher compliment paid to his devotion and his singleness of purpose.

As Mr. Sanders mounted his horse, Edie watched him, and, as she stood with her arms extended, each hand grasping a side of the doorway, smiling and showing her white teeth, she presented a picture of wild and irresponsible beauty that an artist would have admired. Finally, she turned away with a laugh, saying, "I declare that Mr. Sanders is a sight!"

In due time the Racking Roan carried Mr. Sanders across Murder Creek to the plantation of Felix Samples, where the news of the arrest of the young men occasioned both grief and indignation. They had arrived at the dance about nine o'clock, and had started home between eleven and twelve. Gabriel, Mr. Samples said, was not one of the party. Indeed, he remembered very well that when some of the young people asked for Gabriel, Francis Bethune had said that the town had been searched for Gabriel, and he was not to be found.

Evidently, there was no case against the three young men who had gone to the dance. They could prove an alibi by fifty persons. "Be jigged ef I don't b'lieve Gabriel is in for it," said Mr. Sanders to himself as he was going back to Shady Dale. "An' that's what comes of moonin' aroun'

an' loafin' about in the woods wi' the wild creeturs."

Mr. Sanders went straight to the Lumsden Place to consult with Gabriel's grandmother. Meriwether Clopton and Miss f.a.n.n.y Tomlin were already there, each having called for the purpose of offering her such comfort and consolation as they could. This fine old gentlewoman had had the care of Gabriel almost from the time he was born, for his birth left his mother an invalid, the victim of one of those mysterious complaints that sometimes seize on motherhood. It was well known in that community, whose members knew whatever was to be known about one another, that Lucy Lumsden's mind and heart were wholly centred on Gabriel and his affairs.

She was a frail, delicate woman, gentle in all her ways, and ever ready to efface herself, as it were, and give precedence to others. Her manners were so fine that they seemed to cling to her as the perfume clings to the rose.

So these old friends--Meriwether Clopton, and Miss f.a.n.n.y Tomlin--considered it to be their duty, as it was their pleasure, to call on Lucy Lumsden in her trouble. They expected to find her in a state of collapse, but they found her walking about the house, apparently as calm as a June morning.

"Good-morning, Meriwether," she said pleasantly; "it is a treat indeed, and a rare one, to see you in this house. And here is f.a.n.n.y! I am glad to see you, my dear. It is very good of you to come to an old woman who is in trouble. I think we are all in trouble together. No, don't sit here, my dear; the library is cooler, and you must be warm. Come into the library, Meriwether."

"Upon my word, you look twenty years younger," said Miss f.a.n.n.y Tomlin.

"Do I, indeed? Then trouble must be good for me. Still, I don't appreciate it. I am an old woman, my dear, and all the years of my life I have had a contempt for those who fly into a rage, or lose their tempers. And now, look at me! Never in all your days have you seen a woman in such a rage as I have felt all day and still feel!"

"The idea!" exclaimed Miss f.a.n.n.y. "Why, you look as cool as a cuc.u.mber."

"Yes, the idea!" echoed Mrs. Lumsden. "If I had those miserable creatures in my power, do you know what I would do? Do you know, Meriwether?"

"I can't imagine, Lucy," he replied gently. He saw that the apparent calmness of Gabriel's grandmother was simply the result of suppressed excitement.

"Well, I'll not tell you if you don't know." She seated herself, but rose immediately, and went to the window, where she stood looking out, and tapping gently on the pane with her fingers. She stood there only a short time. "You may imagine that I am nervous," she said, turning away from the window, "but I am not." She held out her hand to ill.u.s.trate. It was frail, but firm. "No," she went on, "I am not nervous; I am simply furious. I know what you came for, my friends, and it is very kind of you; but it is useless. I love you both well, and I know what you would say. I have said such things to my friends, and thought I was performing a duty."

"Well, you know the old saying, Lucy," said Meriwether Clopton. "Misery loves company. We are all in the same boat, and it seems to be a leaky one. I have heard it said that a woman's wit is sometimes better than a man's wisdom, and, for my part, I have not come to see if you needed to be consoled, but to find out your views."