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<h3>Chapter Thirty Six.</h3> <h4>The Horologe of the Dead Horse.</h4> With inquiring eye and anxious heart, I turned towards the spot where I had left my companion. To my joy, he was still upon his feet, and coming towards me. I could see blood dripping from his fingers, and a crimson-stained rent in the sleeve of his buckskin shirt; but the careless air with which he was regarding it, at once set my mind at rest. He was smiling: there could not be much danger in the wound? It proved so in effect. The bullet had passed through the muscular part of the left forearm—only tearing the flesh. The wound did not even require a surgeon. The haemorrhage once checked, the dressing which my experience enabled me to give it was sufficient; and kept slung a few days it would be certain to heal. Unpleasant as was the incident, it seemed to affect my companion far less than the words that preceded it. The allegorical allusions were but two well understood; and though they added but little to the knowledge already in his possession, that little produced a renewed acerbity of spirit. It affected me equally with my comrade—perhaps more. The figurative revelations of the Indian had put a still darker phase on the affair. The letter of Lilian spoke only of a far country, where gold was dug out of the sand.—California, of course. There was no allusion to the Salt Lake—not one word about a migration to the metropolis of the Mormons. Su-wa-nee’s speech, on the other hand, clearly alluded to this place as the goal of the squatter’s journey! How her information could have been obtained, or whence derived, was a mystery; and, though loth to regard it as oracular, I could not divest myself of a certain degree of conviction that her words were true. The mind, ever prone to give assent to information conveyed by hints and innuendos, too often magnifies this gipsy knowledge; and dwells not upon the means by which it may have been acquired. For this reason gave I weight to the warnings of the brown-skinned sibyl—though uttered only to taunt, and too late to be of service. The incident altered our design—only so far as to urge us to its more rapid execution; and, without losing time, we turned our attention once more to the pursuit of the fugitives. The first point to be ascertained was the time of their departure. “If it wan’t for the rain,” said the hunter, “I ked a told it by thar tracks. They must a made some hyar in the mud, while toatin’ thar things to the dug-out. The durned rain’s washed ’em out—every footmark o’ ’em.” “But the horses? what of them? They could not have gone off in the canoe?” “I war just thinkin’ o’ them. The one you seed with Stebbins must a been hired, I reck’n; an’ from Kipp’s stables. Belike enuf, the skunk tuk him back the same night, and then come agin ’ithout him; or Kipp might a sent a nigger to fetch him?” “But Holt’s own horse—the old ‘critter,’ as you call him?” “That diz need explainin’. He must a left him ahind. He culdn’t a tuk him in the dug-out; besides, he wan’t worth takin’ along. The old thing war clean wore out, an’ wuldn’t a sold for his weight in corn-shucks. Now, what ked they a done wi’ him?” The speaker cast a glance around, as if seeking for an answer. “Heigh!” he exclaimed, pointing to some object, on which he had fixed his glance. “Yonder we’ll find him! See the buzzarts! The old hoss’s past prayin’ for, I’ll be boun’.” It was as the hunter had conjectured. A little outside the enclosure, several vultures were seen upon the trees, perched upon the lowest branches, and evidently collected there by some object on the ground. On approaching the spot, the birds flew off with reluctance; and the old horse was seen lying among the weeds, under the shadow of a gigantic sycamore. He was quite dead, though still wearing his skin; and a broad red disc in the dust, opposite a gaping wound in the animal’s throat, showed that he had been slaughtered where he lay! “He’s killed the crittur!” musingly remarked my companion as he pointed to the gash; “jest like what he’d do! He might a left the old thing to some o’ his neighbours, for all he war worth; but it wudn’t a been Hick Holt to a did it. He wan’t partickler friendly wi’ any o’ us, an’ least o’ all wi’ myself—tho’ I niver knew the adzact reezun o’t, ’ceptin’ that I beat him once shootin’, at a barbecue. He war mighty proud a’ his shootin’, an’ that riled him, I reck’n: he’s been ugly wi’ me iver since.” I scarcely heeded what the young hunter was saying—my attention being occupied with a process of analytical reasoning. In the dead horse, I had found a key to the time of Holt’s departure. The ground for some distance around where the carcass lay was quite dry: the rain having been screened off by a large spreading branch of the sycamore, that extended its leafy protection over the spot. Thus sheltered, the body lay just as it had fallen; and the crimson rivulet, with its terminating “pool,” had only been slightly disturbed by the feet of the buzzards—the marks of whose claws were traceable in the red mud, as was that of their beaks upon the eyeballs of the animal. All these were signs, which the experience of a prairie campaign had taught me how to interpret; and which the forest lore of my backwoods comrade also enabled him to read. At the first question put to him, he comprehended my meaning. “How long think you since he was killed?” I asked, pointing to the dead horse. “Ha! ye’re right, stranger!” said he, perceiving the object of the interrogatory. “I war slack not to think o’ that. We kin easy find out, I reck’n.” The hunter bent down over the carcass, so as to bring his eyes close to the red gash in the neck. In this he placed the tips of his fingers, and kept them there. He uttered not a word, but held his head slantwise and steadfast, as if listening. Only for a few seconds did he remain in this attitude; and then, as if suddenly satisfied with the examination, he rose from his stooping posture, exclaiming as he stood erect: “Good, by thunder! The old horse hain’t been dead ’bove a kupple o’ hours. Look thar, stranger! the blood ain’t froze? I kin a’most fancy thar’s heat in his old karkiss yet!” “You are sure he has been killed this morning?” “Quite sure o’t; an’ at most three, or may be four hour agone. See thar!” he continued, raising one of the limbs, and letting it drop again; “limber as a eel! Ef he’d a been dead last night, the leg’d been stiff long afore this.” “Quite true,” replied I, convinced, as was my companion, that the horse had been slaughtered that morning. This bit of knowledge was an important contribution towards fixing the time of the departure. It told the day. The hour was of less importance to our plans; though to that, by a further process of reasoning, we were enabled to make a very near approximation. Holt must have killed the horse before going off; and the act, as both of us believed, could not have been accomplished at a very early hour. As far as the sign enabled us to tell, not more than four hours ago; and perhaps about two, before the time of my first arrival in the clearing. Whether the squatter had left the ground immediately after the performance of this rude sacrifice, it was impossible to tell. There was no sign by which to determine the point; but the probability was, that the deed was done just upon the eve of departure; and that the slaughter of the old horse was the closing act of Holt’s career in his clearing upon Mud Creek. Only one doubt remained. Was it he who had killed the animal? I had conceived a suspicion pointing to Su-wa-nee—but without being able to attribute to the Indian any motive for the act. “No, no!” replied my comrade, in answer to my interrogatory on this head: “’twar Holt hisself, sartin. He culdn’t take the old hoss along wi’ him, an’ he didn’t want anybody else to git him. Besides, the girl hedn’t no reezun to a did it. She’d a been more likely to a tuk the old critter to thar camp—seein’ he war left behind wi’ nobody to own him. Tho’ he wan’t worth more’n what the skin ’ud fetch, he’d adone for them ar Injuns well enuf, for carryin’ thar traps an’ things. No, ’twan’t her, nor anybody else ’ceptin’ Holt hisself—he did it?” “If that be so, comrade, there is still hope for us. They cannot have more than four hours the start. You say the creek has a winding course?” “Crooked as a coon’s hind leg.” “And the Obion?” “Most part the same. It curls through the bottom like the tail o’ a cur-dog; an’ nigher the Massissippy, it don’t move faster than a snail ’ud crawl. I reck’n the run o’ the river ’ll not help ’em much. The’ll hev a good spell o’ paddlin’ afore they git down to Massissippy; an’ I hope that durned Mormon ’ll blister his ugly claws at it!” “With all my heart!” I rejoined; and both of us at the same instant recognising the necessity of taking time by the forelock, we hurried back to our horses, sprang into our saddles and started along the trace conducting to the mouth of the Obion. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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