Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

The trail up the creek was nothing more than a sheep path, and the three horsemen were continually swaying and bending, stooping and dodging the thick undergrowth that at times made progress difficult. Here and there the sheriff caught sight of the tracks of a horse in the soft mold, but they had palpably been made by Ranse’s horse as he had ridden out with his news, and not a trace could he find of young Bart Cantrell’s horse. Undoubtedly the latter had left his mount near the mouth of the creek and followed that trail afoot.

Coming out of a dense bed of rhododendron they found themselves in a little clearing in the center of which sat a log cabin.

“Who lives here?” demanded Rutherford of their guide.

“I do.” He dismounted and laid down a panel of the rail fence. “Reckon we’d best leave our hosses hyeh. Can’t go further on hossback.”

Despite his huge proportions Rutherford set a pace into the headwaters of the creek which taxed the strength and energy of his two companions, and brought a twinkle of admiration into the eyes of the deputy. It was quite apparent that the sheriff was a woodsman of no mean order. Nor did he pause for rest until a rim of precipices towered high above them.

At a gesture from Ranse he turned off at right angles and swung up a sharp incline for a matter of something like a hundred yards before reaching the bench behind which reared that line of cliffs. Seated upon mossy bowlders at the base of the nearest precipice were two motionless men, and Rutherford with a start recognized one of them as Hook-Dave, that enigma of the Cumberlands. The other was ’Lige Honeycutt, an uncle to the deputy whom the sheriff had brought with him.

As they drew near the sheriff saw that the two men were talking in a low tone as if awed by the presence of death, and just beyond them he caught sight of a motionless, shapeless form wedged between two great bowlders. In single file the three newcomers drew near.

“Howdy, men!” drawled Rutherford, removing his hat and fanning his perspiring face. Slowly he let his eyes sweep over the scene, missing no detail. Then he turned his gaze to ’Lige Honeycutt.

“Bad business, eh?” he ejaculated.

Honeycutt grunted an affirmative.

Rutherford knew and trusted ’Lige Honeycutt. A pillar in the Primitive Baptist Church and a law-abiding citizen, he could have had no part in the crime, neither would he aid in the capture or prosecution of the perpetrator. It had been a “hands-off” policy which had enabled him to live in peaceful and successful proximity to the lawless elements along the State line, and he was unlikely to change that attitude.

After shaking hands with Honeycutt the sheriff turned to Hook-Dave and met the latter’s expressionless gaze. He was a heavy, squat man in direct contrast to the average gangling hillman, and there was that about his mouth and eyes that set him apart from his people as a dangerous and menacing figure. His gray eyes were flinty, and his lips thin and straight, giving him a grim appearance at all times, which the heavy stubble of beard failed to efface.

In a fight with a rival faction across the State line some several years earlier he had lost his right arm near the elbow — had it literally shot away — and in its place he wore a sharp steel hook which dangled from his sleeve in such a manner that it gave the casual observer the creeps. And manifestly that steel arm could be a dangerous weapon in close quarters. Indeed, if rumor could be believed, it had done deadly havoc more than once.

Rutherford knew that there was open hostility in the glance he gave Hook-Dave, but he found it utterly impossible to mask his malice.’ He had warmly liked his young deputy and the sight of that shapeless figure at the base of the precipice had sent a surge of uncontrollable anger rippling through his veins. Not for a single instant did he believe that Bart’s fall had been accidental, but to connect that crime with Hook-Dave would be another thing. But of one thing he was positive — he would bring Hook-Dave Hall to justice for that act if he never did anything else.

III

With a common impulse the five men gathered in a semi-circle about the body while the sheriff made a superficial examination. It was apparent that Bart had met death instantly and that he had fallen from the top of the precipice at least two hundred feet above. As far as he was able to ascertain there were no other marks of violence except those which could have been made by the fall. Hook-Dave had covered his crime well.

Rutherford straightened and tugged thoughtfully at his mustaches, staring through half-closed eyes at the wild morning glory vines which covered the two bowlders between which the victim was wedged. Then he turned to ’Lige Honeycutt.

“Who first located the body, ’Lige?” he demanded softly.

“I did,” replied the hillman. “Me an’ Ranse an’ Hook-Dave hyeh was passin’ an’ I seen it — lyin’ thar.”

“What time was that?”

“Ten o’clock — mebbe a little atter.”