Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927

“NOW,” SAID CAL, HOLDING UP THE AX, “NOTE THAT THIS EDGE IS FOR CHOPPING, BUT THE OTHER, THE BLUNTER ONE, IS THE SPLITTING EDGE”

I

It was the mournful howling of a hound that attracted “Frogeye” Bates to the scene of the murder. Frogeye, a trapper on the St. Francis above Buck Island, was on his way down river to Marked Tree for supplies, and first heard the hound when he neared the mouth of Little Caney, which enters the St. Francis from the east at a point one mile north of the island’s head.

“Sounds lak he mought be tied up, or ketched in a trap,” the native speculated. “Splinter Hughes lives over thataway somewhars. Reckon I’ll go ashore an’ see whut ails th’ critter. Splinter mought be away, an’ one of his houn’s mought be ketched.”

To a native of the Arkansas Sunken Lands, as well as to most men who dwell in the wildernesses, a good dog is of great consequence; he is to be looked after and protected at all times, and woe to the person who abuses another’s canine property.

Frogeye Bates was in a hurry to reach Marked Tree; it had been many weeks since he had visited the place, and he hungered for the good things to be had only in the village. But he could not pass that hound so distressfully voicing woe. He headed in above the mouth of Little Caney, went ashore and started off in the direction of the sounds.

“By granny!” he exclaimed after a few moments. “Thishere path leads straight to’ards Splinter’s cabin. One of his houn’s, shore as I’m bawn!”

A hundred yards farther he had reason to conclude that Hughes was at home, for he came upon the old man’s dugout where it lay at anchor on the north shore of Little Caney. From that point the trail led directly to the cabin, a distance of two hundred yards through the timber. The hound, sensing a human presence, redoubled his howling.

When Bates entered the clearing before the cabin he saw the hound, gaunt and black, standing before the door, alert, his muzzle pointing in the direction of his approach. At sight of him, the dog thrust his muzzle skyward and howled with long-drawn misery.

Frogeye shivered. “Shut up that racket!” he called sharply. “Whut th’ hell’s th’ matter, anyhow? Wharat is yore master? Shut up, now, or I’ll lay a limb across yore back!”

The hound, recognizing a voice of authority, ceased his wailing, and sidled away from Bates, watching him out of red-rimmed eyes.

“Hello in thar!” Bates called, pausing near the door. For some undefined reason he hesitated to enter. “Git up, Splinter, and greet yore comp’ny!”

No reply. The hound gave tongue in long, mournful cadence. Again Bates shivered.

“Somethin’ wrong,” he mused. “Somethin’ wrong, shore as I’m bawn! Guess I’ll hafta look inside.”

It required courage to pull the latch-string, but Frogeye mustered it. He pushed the door open cautiously, then stood for a moment on the threshold and gazed into the dark interior. Presently his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom — and he saw much.

What he saw was not pretty. Nausea assailed him, and he sought the air again, white and trembling. At length he entered the place, opened a shuttered window and allowed light to flood the room.

Splinter Hughes, a mere wisp of man, old, white of hair and beard, lay on the floor in the center of a large smear of dry blood which had poured from a terrible wound in his head. He had been dead many hours; perhaps two or three days. The cabin’s crude furnishings were overturned, and the room was in a state of wild disorder. No other person was there.

On the floor near the door lay a huge black and tan hound, mate to the animal outdoors. His head had been split open.

Frogeye Bates saw all that, but no more. He did not linger to investigate further. Racing back to his dugout, he leaped in and sent the craft downstream with all the speed he could command. Ordinary death would not have disturbed him in the least, but this was not ordinary. Murder had been done, and the mystery of it sent a chill to his heart.

By the time he reached the foot of Buck Island he had reached a conclusion. Oak Donnick lay twenty miles farther, and the headquarters of die rangers was there. Frogeye had never had much use for the rangers, but he knew they were the ones to inform of this matter.

Chief Wheeler would send a man up there to look around, and that “looking around” would certainly result in a solution of the mystery and the capture of the guilty party. Frogeye knew that; knew it because he could recall many similar cases. The rangers always solved mysteries, and always got their men.

He met other natives on the stream, but kept his mouth closed about the crime. He was intelligent enough to understand the importance of keeping his news to himself, thereby affording the rangers a chance to get on the scene before others.

“Splinter had too much money,” he reflected, recalling tales he had heard concerning the old man’s possessions. For the swamp land, he was wealthy. Industrious, saving, Hughes had accumulated considerable money — at least, such was the report. “Kep’ his money hid in his cabin, I’ll bet, an’ somebody done kilt him fur it!”

In the late afternoon he beached at Oak Donnick, went ashore and reported to Hubbard Wheeler, ranger chief.

An hour later, Inspector Jack Calhoun, accompanied by Ranger Murdock, departed up river, bound for the mouth of Little Caney, and the cabin of Splinter Hughes.

II

Jack Calhoun, tall, lean, muscular, had arisen from the ranks of the rangers to the post of chief inspector, a rank second only to that of Hubbard Wheeler himself. Beneath his thatch of straw-colored, sun bleached hair, lay a store of knowledge astonishing in its scope and depth.

His understanding of the natives of the Sunken Lands, their character and their habits, individual and in the mass, was little short of marvelous. A woodsman of the highest skill, the country itself held few secrets from him.

Homely of face, quiet and unassuming, he was not, when idle, impressive to the eye. When in action, however, he became transformed; the quiet, unassuming, seemingly indolent Cal disappeared, and in his place came the machinelike person of brain and energy which was the real Calhoun. The Calhoun who was feared and respected throughout the whole of the Sunken Lands.

Tom Murdock, the inspector’s choice as an aid when available, was much like Cal in build and in some other particulars; the same indefatigable energy, skill in woodcraft, and regard for duty.

He lacked Cal’s penchant for leadership, his keen perception — in short, his fine mental ability. Murdock excelled in execution; he could and did follow orders to the letter. The two men worked together in perfect harmony and understanding, and the fame of their joint achievements will never be forgotten in the Great Swamp.

It was those two men who set out on the trail of the murderer of Splinter Hughes. They proceeded silently, each in his own dugout. Until the scene of the crime had been reached and thoroughly examined there would be little or no conversation.

One of Calhoun’s invariable rules was not to discuss a case or speculate upon it at all even in his own thoughts, until he had inspected the premises and learned all he could therefrom.

Day had dawned when they beached their boats on the north shore of Little Caney and took their way toward the cabin. The hungry but vigilant hound challenged their approach, was quieted and fed, and the two entered the cabin.

The fact that the body of the murdered trapper, and the contents of the room, remained undisturbed so long was due, no doubt, to the lonely situation of the cabin. There was no other habitation within a radius of four or five miles, and the natives of the Sunken Lands are not much given to visiting.

Murdock sat down near the door and waited while Calhoun walked about the room, surveying it critically.

“Killed with an ax,” he said. “No struggle. Must have died instantly. Room in disorder because the killer searched for something. Two or more men ate supper here the evening of the murder. Hughes lived alone. Had a guest that night, either known to him, or a chance caller. No means of determining that. Must have happened three or four days ago, because the water in the drinking bucket is stale and has a slight scum over it.”

He paused in front of a table which sat against a wall near the fireplace, took up an empty tomato can, looked at it and replaced it on the table. Then he poked into the few pots and pans the cupboard held.

“Dishes all washed up,” he resumed. “But there was company at the meal.” He indicated some wrapping paper which lay in a wood box near the table. “That paper was removed from a side of breakfast bacon that evening. It is on top of the kindling wood in the box, and would not have been there had Splinter lived to build a fire the following morning. We may safely assume that it was torn off the bacon on the evening of the murder.

“Now,” he went on, taking a slab of bacon from the cupboard and exhibiting it, “the knife marks in the rind of this bacon, which has not been cut off, indicate that ten slices have been cut. About the amount two hungry men would eat, along with other food. There may have been more bacon, of course, and this piece may have been the reserve supply, although I can find no other rind here. We are going to assume that two men sat down to supper that night. I think that will prove to be correct.”

Calhoun gave his attention next to the corner of the room set aside for sleeping quarters. There were two bunks against the wall, one above another.

“A straw-tick in the upper bunk, but no blankets,” he reflected aloud. “Seldom used. Lower bunk in constant use, and the blankets are spread neatly over the tick. Another evidence that the killing took place after supper and before bedtime.”

“How do you account for the blankets being spread so neatly over the tick, and all the rest of the room in disorder?” Murdock queried.

“I was considering that,” Cal returned. “I think the inference is very clear. The killer found what he sought before he reached the bunk, else it, too, would have been disturbed. Yes,” he went on positively, “that bunk tells the story. The killer got the loot he slew for. No doubt about it. Now let’s take a look at the ax he used for a weapon.”

On the floor beyond the fireplace, where it had evidently been cast after the killing, lay a double-blade ax, commonly referred to as a double-bitted ax. Cal picked it up. The helve was blood-stained and there was hair on one edge. It was beyond doubt, the instrument of death.

“Hughes finished doing the dishes that night,” he said, eying the ax attentively, “then sat down and filled his pipe for an after-supper smoke. The pipe is there on the floor near him; tobacco in it, but no evidence of its having been lit.

“The killer snatched up the ax, probably when the old man leaned over to get a coal of fire from the hearth with which to light the pipe. He struck, killing Hughes with one blow. The position of the wound indicates that the victim was bending over when struck.”

He placed the ax on the table and went over to where the dead hound lay. After studying the animal for a moment, he got down on his knees, Murdock watching his every movement attentively, and pried its mouth open.

“Cloth,” he muttered, abstracting a triangular bit of material from the dog’s jaws. “Doesn’t mean much,” he went on, “as it is jeans, and virtually every man in the Sunken Lands wears jeans trousers.”

Murdock nodded agreement, and waited.

“When the killer struck,” Cal resumed, “the dog attacked. Probably bit him on a leg, tearing the trousers. The killer thrust the hound off and killed him with the ax.”

He took up the implement again, examined it critically, and nodded.

“Black hairs with the white,” he remarked. “Dog’s and master’s. Same man killed both, and with the same ax. One man only, Tom, I’ll bet my commission.”

Murdock nodded vigorously. “Right!” he declared. “Anything else you can read on that ax-helve? Does it hold any more evidence—”

The put-put-put of a motor boat caused the ranger to break off, and both went out.

“Lundsford!” Murdock ejaculated disgustedly when, a few minutes later, the burly form of the sheriff of Poinsette County broke cover and came across the clearing. He was followed by half a dozen deputies, and a crowd of native swampers brought up the rear.

Cal nodded, a grim smile playing about his lips.

III

Sheriff Lundsford, a skillful politician, held office in Poinsette because he was a good vote getter. Once in office, with all secure, he was content to draw salary and fees, attend public gatherings in the county, where he was afforded opportunities to strut and brag, and otherwise follow his indolent inclinations.

As a law officer he was a total loss. While he attempted to hide the fact, the rangers’ activities in the Sunken Lands, embracing the northern half of his county, galled him bitterly. He held them up to ridicule, when out of their sight and hearing, whenever opportunity offered, and always interfered with the operation of the organization when possible. Jack Calhoun was particularly obnoxious to him.

Calhoun, who had no room within himself to hate any man, disliked Lundsford for his officious, interfering tendencies, and for that reason never overlooked a chance to show the sheriff up. Lundsford amused, and, at the same time, disgusted him. He watched the burly sheriff amble across the clearing, apparently unconcerned.

“Hello, Cal!” Lundsford roared. “Hi, Murdock! Reckon you two famous hounds have done nosed out the trail, so there ain’t any use of me here, eh? Who done it, and why?” There was attempted sarcasm in his voice, and his words were as insulting as he dared make them.

“Howdy, Lundsford,” Cal greeted. “We’ve done very little, so far; just looked the ground over and made a few deductions. Your turn now.”

He stood aside and allowed Lundsford to enter. Murdock followed the sheriff inside, but the inspector stood on the door-log and looked the crowd of natives and deputies over. Perhaps a score were there.

Beeswax Brown, a trapper and bee-hunter from Brush Lake, Nate Billings, from the headwaters of Little Caney, Joe Hampton, from Buck Island, and a tall fellow named Eph Diggs, who combined fanning and trapping, were among those the inspector recognized. There were many others, all of whom were more or less known to him.

“You boys stay outside until Lundsford looks the place over,” Cal bade them. “Seems like the news spread pretty rapidly,” he went on suggestively. “A lot of you here.”

It was Eph Diggs who answered:

“I war comin’ up frum Marked Tree,” he said, “an’ met Frogeye goin’ down. He told me.”

“Same here,” said Beeswax.

“Frogeye told me, too,” Joe Hampton explained.

It seemed that Frogeye, after keeping his mouth shut until he reached the rangers’ headquarters, had thereafter opened it wide.

“Any of you fellows see Splinter Hughes during the past three or four days?” Cal queried.

Nat Billings had gone down Little Caney to the St. Francis, thence to Marked Tree, four days before, but had not stopped off at Splinter’s place, nor had he seen him. Eph Diggs had gone down the day following, and Splinter had not been seen by him. No one else had seen the old trapper for several days past.

“He war a dum fool, war Splinter,” Billings volunteered during a silence. “Saved up his money, but wouldn’t put it in no bank. Kep’ it in th’ cabin, an’ this here air whut cum of it!”

“How do you know he kept money in the cabin?” Lundsford asked the question, his hard eyes on the face of Billings. “How do you happen to know so much?”

“Well,” the native replied hesitatingly, “well, that’s whut th’ gineral impression is. I don’t know fur sure—”

“Then keep your mouth shut!” Lundsford snapped. “Hell is full of men that talked too damned much! Remember that—”

He broke off, eyes narrowing, while he studied a torn place on Billings’s right trouser-leg. He said nothing, but motioned Cal into the cabin.

“What do you make of things, Calhoun?” he asked, when inside.

“Murder,” the inspector answered.

“Murder, of course!” the sheriff snorted. “But who? Anything here suggesting who the guilty party is?”

Cal nodded. “Not directly to the man,” he answered. “But there’s evidence indicating the sort of person he is — occupation, for instance. At least one physical characteristic is noticeable, and it should prove no trick at all to name the locality where he probably lives. The case is young yet, of course, and may take most any shape. What do you find?”

Lundsford scratched his head. “Well,” he replied, “I find that old Splinter was killed for his money, and it’s clear that some neighbor of his done it.”

Cal raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “Is that so?” he asked.

“Of course!” Lundsford declared. “A neighbor, knowing about Hughes keeping considerable money by him, drops in for a visit, kills the old man, robs him and gets away. That’s about all. And,” he lowered his voice, “I already have an eye on a likely suspect.”

“Is that so?” Cal asked, astonished. “So soon?”

Lundsford winked knowingly. “You bet!” he declared. “That piece of jeans cloth you took out of the hound’s mouth, and which Murdock showed me — that’s the clew in this case. The only clew, in fact. Now,” he went on, “there’s a native out there with a pair of jeans pants on that have been torn on the right leg, and a scrap of cloth is missing. How’s that for observing things?”

“You mean Billings,” Cal replied quietly. “I noticed the tear in his trouser-leg. Billings, however, is an old acquaintance of Splinter’s, and often at his cabin. That seems to let him out.”

“What!” Lundsford exclaimed. “Lets him out! How do you figure that?”

“The hound would not have attacked a man well known to him, even though the man did attack his master,” Cal explained patiently. “You know the nature of the native hound, Lundsford — or should. You could not set one on a man well known to him, even if you tried. The man who killed Splinter was a stranger — at least to the hound.”

Lundsford gave the inspector a look of disgust. “There you go,” he exclaimed, “dragging in theory and unimportant matters! Billings has a piece of cloth missing from the leg of his pants, and the dead hound had a scrap of the same cloth in his mouth! I say — watch Billings!”

“Would Billings be likely to wear the trousers, knowing the dog had tom them?” Cal asked. “A pair of new ones would be more significant.”

“Hell,” Lundsford replied, “these natives are all damned fools! He wouldn’t think anything about it.”

“There’s where you make a mistake, Lundsford,” Cal corrected. “The natives are not damned fools, or anything like that. They are shrewd and wary, for the most part. Why not try and fit the scrap of cloth to the rent in Billings’s trousers?”

“All in good time,” said Lundsford. “You don’t agree that the killer was a neighbor of Splinter’s. Why?”

“For very good reasons,” Cal replied. “The bit of cloth is unimportant. The ax is the clew. Look it over carefully—”

“Pshaw!” Lundsford interrupted. “What’s to learn from the ax? It was one of Splinter’s, kept in the cabin, of course. The killer found it handy, and used it. That’s easy to see!”

Cal shook his head negatively. “The ax did not belong to Splinter,” he stated. “It was the property of the killer, and he did not bring it here for the purpose of committing the murder. He used it because, when he made up his mind to do the deed, it was ready to his hand. After he used it, he flung it aside and forgot to take it with him when he went. Observe the ax, Lundsford — particularly the splitting edge.”

IV

Lundsford stared, puzzled. “Reckon you’ll have to explain that,” he said after a bit. “An ax is an ax, and that’s all you can make out of it. What you mean?”

“An ax, Lundsford, has individuality,” Cal replied. “Rather, it has the individuality of its owner. The careless, inaccurate axman, for instance. The handle of his ax will be splintered and scuffed where it enters the helve. That of the careful, accurate axman will be the contrary.

“That is merely one instance of the individuality of an ax. Let us look at Splinter’s ax, which is yonder near his wood pile, and see what we can learn from it.”

Followed by the sheriff, Calhoun went to where Hughes’s ax lay, and took it up.

“This is a home-made handle,” he pointed out. “Few natives ever buy a readymade ax handle. He can make better ones himself. Notice that this one, while a good, serviceable handle, lacks smoothness. Hughes was not expert with a drawing-knife, and did not give his work the fine, smooth finish it could have had.”

“Humph!” Lundsford exclaimed. “I can see that, but what of it?”

“The handle in the ax used by the murderer,” Cal pointed out, “is smooth, so expertly done as to leave no sign of a drawing knife. The maker probably sandpapered it. It is undoubtedly a homemade handle.”

“Well,” the sheriff growled grudgingly, “go on. I agree that you are right about the handle. What about that splitting edge you spoke of?”

Cal held the double-bitted helve up and traced one edge with a long forefinger. “This is what is known as a chopping or cutting edge,” he explained. “Notice that the blade is ground far back, coming down gradually to a fine, sharp edge. Such an edge is solely for chopping, since it bites deep and throws out a big chip. Do you follow me?”

Lundsford nodded. Cal then indicated the other blade, showing that it too was ground to a chopping edge.

“Let’s look at the killer’s ax,” he proposed, leading the way to the cabin, observed with deep interest by the crowd which lounged around near by.

“Now,” he said, holding the bloodstained ax up for Lundsford to observe, “note that one edge of this ax is ground for chopping.”

The sheriff examined the implement critically, then nodded. “It is,” he said.

“But,” Cal went on, exhibiting the other edge, “the blade is not so ground. The slope does not extend nearly so far up, and the edge is considerably blunter — more on a bevel. This is what is known as a splitting edge. In splitting a block of wood, Lundsford, the idea is not to cut it down its length, of course. That is impossible. A single stroke of a blunt-edge ax, in the right place, will split it through.

“A sharp, chopping edge, often bites deep into the wood and hangs there, with no resulting bursting apart of the fiber. Hence the splitting edge is required. This ax has one edge ground for chopping, and one ground for splitting.”

“Well,” Lundsford said, seeing the inspector was through, “now you’ve gone and explained all this, what good is it? How does it help catch this killer?”

Cal looked at him steadily for a moment. It was in his mind that here was a dumb man, but he did not allow the thought to show in his face. Presently he said:

“This edge, the splitting edge, is the clew in this case. It narrows our field down to a very small area. Can’t you see that?”

“Nope,” Lundsford declared. “Can’t see anything in that idea. Just one of your fine-drawn theories, Cal. No practical use at all. You asked me, and I’m telling you.”

Cal laughed. “Glad you’re frank about it,” he said good-humoredly. “And, to show you that I’m not offended, I’ll point out something else I have learned from these two axes.”

He took Hughes’s implement in hand, extended it at arm’s length, and sighted down the handle. “See, Lundsford,” he said, “how the handle of this ax bows slightly to the right. A right-handed man habitually swung this ax.”

He laid it down and took up the ax of the murderer, sighting down the handle as before. “This handle bows the other way, which indicates that it was used by a left-handed man. All this stuff, Lundsford, is elementary. Any woodsman could have pointed it out to you. However, the story told by the two axes does this:

“It tells us that the ax used as a weapon was not the property of Hughes, and that the owner swings his ax left-handed. That does not mean that he is left-handed in all things. Many right-handed men chop and hoe left-handed, as you surely must have observed. But the killer undoubtedly uses an ax left-handed.”

Lundsford could not escape the logic of that; it was too clearly drawn. But he was not willing to admit that Cal’s deductions had brought him one inch closer to the solution of the mystery than he had been to start with.

“Granting all that,” he said, “where does that get you?”

“This far: I want a man who does a bit of splitting with his ax, but not enough to warrant him in buying one and grinding both blades for the purpose. One blade, so ground, is sufficient for his needs. The other blade, ground for chopping, makes the ax a two-purpose one.

“This man is left-handed, insofar as using an ax goes, and he is neat in his work, skillful with a drawing knife, and, probably, with other carpentering tools. That, Lundsford, is where my deductions from the ax gets me.”

“And you say those deductions narrows your field?” Lundsford queried.

“Absolutely.”

“How? Don’t every native in the Sunken Lands own axes? And don’t they grind ’em like this killer’s ax is ground?”

“Yes, to the first question. No, to the second,” Cal replied. “Nearly all the native axes are double-bitted, it’s true, but when did you ever see a native swamper sawing up a tree trunk and splitting it into wood? He almost invariably chops down a few poles, drags them up to his cabin, and chops them into the desired length.

“A native, as you probably know, never travels any distance at all without two things — his rifle and his ax. Go down to the boats at anchor, Lundsford, and examine the axes you’ll find there. I’ll wager there will not be a splitting edge among them.”

“Well,” the sheriff pondered aloud, “that is the same as saying that the killer is not a native. You mean that?”

“Not at all,” was the reply. “He probably is a native.”

“Damn it all!” Lundsford exploded wrath fully. “You make out to lead a feller in a straight line, when all you do is to take him around in a circle! First you prove, by an ax, that no native done the killing; then, by hokey, you say a native did do it! You go ahead in your own way, Calhoun, and I’ll go mine. I’m betting I get my man — and I won’t need to read no solution on the helve of no ax!”

The angry sheriff stalked off, leaving Calhoun smiling to himself.

V

Calhoun stood on the door log and watched Lundsford going about among the natives, interrogating them in his habitual bullying manner. At intervals other swampers dropped in, having heard the news, and each fresh arrival was a fish for the sheriff’s net.

Presently, tiring of watching, Cal strolled down to the creek where the boats lay at anchor. At the expiration of an hour he had accurately appraised the contents of each craft there. Then he returned to the cabin.

Lundsford was sitting on the door log, a complacent grin on his heavy countenance.

“Well, what luck, Mr. Sheriff?” Cal queried, pausing near him.

“I got my man all but pinned to the wall,” Lundsford exulted. “Going to wait awhile before nabbing him, though. Won’t do to be too hasty. My men are watching him, so he can’t get away. After the coroner has come and held his inquest, I’ll have him in irons. Aim to bring out the evidence against him at the hearing — and I won’t leave him a leg to stand on.”

“Fine!” Cal exclaimed. “As you say, it doesn’t pay to be too hasty. That bringing out the evidence at the inquest is a good idea. Stick to it, and you probably will be glad you did.”

Lundsford shot a suspicious glance toward Cal, but found him serious of face. The twinkle far back in his eyes went unobserved.

“What you going to do, eh?” the sheriff asked.

“Going to take a trip up Little Caney,” was the reply. “Murdock can handle our end of things here, and I’ve a little matter to see after up the creek. Might as well do it now, while we wait for the coroner, and save myself a trip later. So long.”

After giving certain instructions to Murdock, Calhoun took to the creek in his dug-out and made speed toward the east. He had a five hour journey ahead of him, and wished to return to the cabin in the early hours of the following morning. The inquest would probably be held then, and he meant to be there.

At eight o’clock the following morning he returned to the clearing before Hughes’s cabin, and paused at the outer edge of a crowd which had gathered before the door. It looked as though every native within a radius of twenty miles had appeared for the inquest. Lundsford was speaking in loud and confident tones.

“Billings,” he interrogated, “you say you came down Little Caney from your place above, on the morning of Monday, four days ago?”

“I shorely did,” Nate Billings answered.

“And you did not see Splinter Hughes?”

“Never seed hide ner hair of him.”

“You didn’t stop off at his cabin?”

“I done told you-all that I never seed Splinter,” was the hot reply. “Whut makes you go on an’ ax me them questions?”

“You answer ’em!” snarled the sheriff, shaking his fist at Nate. “You answer, or I’ll take you in right now! I’m giving you a chance to avoid trouble, and you’d better make the most of it!”

“Go ahead an’ ax,” Billings said, his tones denoting uneasiness. “I’ll answer as best I kin.”

“Billings!” Lundsford suddenly shouted. “Don’t you know that I know you are a liar? Ain’t you lying?” he advanced toward the shrinking native, stiff forefinger leveled under his nose. “Didn’t you come down here last Monday night, kill Splinter Hughes with an ax, rob him, and then go on to Marked Tree? Didn’t you? Of course you won’t own up! I don’t expect you to! But you did just that, and I know you did!

“I’m going to arrest you for the murder of Splinter Hughes — and you’re going to swing for it! How did you get that hole in the right leg of your pants?”

Billings fumbled the hole with trembling fingers. “I... I don’t rightly remember,” he stammered. “I jist got it thar, somehow or ernother—”

“You got it when Hughes’s hound attacked you in the cabin, after you had struck down his master!” Lundsford shouted. “That’s how you got it—”

“No sich a dang thing!”

The interruption came clear and emphatic, startling the group and causing Lundsford to wheel toward the speaker, astonished, his manner threatening.

It was “Coonskin” Barnes, a grizzled swamper, who spoke. He gave Lundsford look for look, advancing until he stood well within the circle formed about the sheriff.

“Shut up, you!” Lundsford bawled. “When I want anything out of you, I’ll let you know!”

“Reckon you’d better do a little shuttin’ up yoreself, Lundsford,” the old trapper retorted, calm and unimpressed. “You aim to fasten thishere crime on Nate Billings, as squar’ a man as ever run a trap-line or drawed a net.

“You-all ain’t keerin’ much, one way or ernother, whether he air th’ guilty one or not. All you-all wants is somebody to put your dang handcuffs on and throw in th’ calaboose. Well, mark me, you ain’t goin’ to take Nate Billings outten this swamp for somethin’ he didn’t do!”

Lundsford, almost speechless, finally recovered sufficiently to speak after a fashion. “What... what do you know about this matter?” he demanded, his voice thick.

“I knows how Nate cum by that hole in his pants leg,” the old man replied. “I remembers, even if he don’t. He got it frum snaggin’ it on a limb when him an’ me cut a bee-tree, a month ago. Scratched his hide a little, too. Tore out a piece of th’ cloth. Anybody but a dang nincompoop could tell that’s an old tear, an’ not one made a few days ago.”

“You tell him, Coonskin!” a native called.

“L’arn him how to be a sheriff!”

“We-all air with you, Coonskin!”

Clearly, Coonskin had many backers. Lundsford and his deputies began to show distinct signs of uneasiness.

“Fuddermo’,” Coonskin went on, “Nate couldn’t of kilt Splinter, an’ fur this reason: He went down to Marked Tree on Monday mornin’, as a dozen men here will swear. They seed him thar, an’ whilst he war on his way.”

“Shore did!”

“I seed him! Went down frum th’ mouth of Caney with him!”

“I knows he war thar!”

Many testified thus. Lundsford was not now nearly so confident as he had been. His deputies began to draw closer to him, as though expecting trouble — as well they might, should the sheriff persist in his former tactics.

“What does that prove?” Lundsford asked. “He may have killed him that morning, and then—”

“No sich a dang thing!” Coonskin declared. “Fur I seed Splinter an’ talked with him las’ Monday atternoon, erbout three o’clock. Seed him an’ talked with him, an’ he war alive an’ well!”

The crowd became suddenly silent. Then, after a moment, Tom Spear, a young native, spoke up:

“See, men, how a dang no-account law officer kin cum in amongst us an’ hang one of us outten hand? See how easy it is? He don’t keer nothin’ erbout us — jist so he gits somebody to hang!”

The crowd began to mutter angrily, and to mill about, flaming eyes on Lundsford and his men. It was a ticklish situation, one loaded to the muzzle with danger. Lundsford saw his position, and attempted to temporize.

“Let’s look further into this matter, men—” he began.

“To hell with you an’ yore lookin’!” Spear snapped. “We got enough of you an’ yore ornery ways! It’s time for you to git, an’ them as cum with you!”

“Wait!”

Calhoun uttered the command, stepping forward as he did so. There was a general turning of heads in his direction, and the crowd, recognizing the ranger, waited silently for him to speak further.

“You’ve fumbled this, Lundsford,” Cal said quietly. “Now it’s my turn.”

VI

Lundsford’s face reddened, and he started to make hot reply. However, he took a second look at the ranger, and closed his mouth.

It was a different Calhoun who stood in the circle of men that morning; he was no longer the smiling, good-natured, easygoing chap of the day before.

Cold of eye, alert of manner and grim of face, he looked more like a tawny panther than he did a human being.

Calhoun began speaking, his voice calm but penetrating.

“Nate Billings had nothing to do with the killing of Splinter Hughes,” he asserted positively. “The murderer, as I told Lundsford yesterday, was a comparative stranger to his victim. He is a native swamper who recently moved into these parts, and had never mixed much with his fellows.

“Hughes knew him by sight, but his hounds did not. I am going to tell you just what occurred on last Monday afternoon and evening — the time when Splinter Hughes met his death.”

He paused, his glance searching for and finding Murdock. The latter watched his chief with concentrated intentness, as a well trained hound watches its master in anticipation of some quiet signal or order.

Presently Cal’s glance shifted, seemed to rove over the crowd, then came to rest at a point directly across the circle from him. Immediately, Murdock dropped back behind the crowd, and when next Cal saw him he was standing across the circle, near the point his glance had indicated. Thereupon the inspector resumed.

“This newcomer,” he went on to say, “had not been here long before he heard talk concerning Splinter Hughes; his rather miserly habits, and the reputed storing up of his earnings in his cabin. That sort of talk interested him, because money was the one thing he cared most for in life. He needed it. Finally, after much thought, he determined to look into things at Splinter’s cabin.

“Whether he intended to kill the old man last Monday night I cannot say. I know, though, that he set out for Marked Tree, timing his departure so as to reach needed it. Finally he determined to look into things at Splinter’s cabin.

“Hughes, knowing him slightly, invited him to come in and eat, and he did so. After supper, possibly before the meal, the murderer managed to get an invitation to remain overnight, and continue his journey in the morning — not a difficult thing to do, as all you swamp men know. A fellow living alone, as Hughes did, is only too glad to have company of his own kind.

“The killer accepted, and he and Hughes went down to the creek and brought up his dunnage; his blankets, rifle, ax, and the like. Possibly he went alone, but whether he did or not is immaterial. What is material is the fact that he did have his dunnage in the cabin at the time of the killing — especially his ax.

“During the time he had been in the cabin the killer managed to satisfy himself that Hughes really kept money there. Probably started talking about the insecurity of banks, which would, of course, lead Splinter into a discourse on his favorite topic: Distrust he entertained toward banks.

“The opportunity to slay the old man came when he sat down, filled his pipe and leaned over to get a coal from the fire. When he did that, the murderer snatched up his ax, which stood near at hand, and slew him with one stroke.

“A hound, belonging to Hughes, was in the cabin. At sight of the violence done his master, the hound attacked, only to be slain in his turn.

“Having committed the deed, the next thing was to gather the fruit of it. The killer tossed his ax aside, and began a feverish, hasty search of the premises. Just where the money was hidden I am unable to say, but I do know that it was discovered before the searcher reached that part of the cabin devoted to sleeping quarters.

“An empty tomato can, standing on the table, showing signs of having been cleaned thoroughly, leads me to believe that Splinter kept his roll of bills in it; probably he kept it on a shelf of the cupboard among other cans. Where the money was, however, does not matter. The killer got it. Having got it, he hurried away and set out for Marked Tree.

“In his haste to leave the scene of the crime, he made a fatal error,” Cal went on. “He forgot the ax with which he had done the deed. That ax, when queried, told its owner’s name as plainly as though it spoke it in words.”

He paused, surveying the crowd, which hung breathless upon his words.

“All of you men know what a splitting edge is,” Cal continued. “This killer’s ax had one splitting edge and one chopping edge. When I observed that, I asked myself this question: Who would have need of an ax ground in such a manner, here in the swamp? There is not, at this season, any bolt or tie cutting going on here. Besides, one who made a business of cutting bolts and ties would have both blades of his ax ground to a splitting edge. After thinking that over, I came to this conclusion:

“The owner of that ax was doing a bit of farming; fencing a small patch of ground with rails. He would have need of only a few rails, and he was engaged in splitting them when he had leisure from other tasks. Hence he ground one blade of his ax for splitting, and the other for chopping.

“Now, where should I look for a man who was doing a bit of farming? Not in the low grounds, certainly. Where, then? Why on a bit of ridge land, of course. You swampers who live in the flood area never split rails, because the first rise would wash them away. If you have need of a corral you cut poles and fasten them to trees, so they will not float off.

“A man on a ridge, desiring to fence permanently and securely against hogs and stock, could safely do so with split rails. That narrowed the field of search. There is only one ridge within twenty miles of here — Hogback Ridge. All of you know the place.

“My man, then, lived on Hogback Ridge, was doing a bit of fencing at odd times. That much seemed certain. Last night I went to Hogback, and found the place I sought. Before I went, though, I examined the contents of the boats at anchor at Splinter’s landing. In only one of them did I fail to find an ax. But the owner of that boat had no tom place in his trousers, as the murderer must have had, since the hound, when he attacked, tore a bit of cloth with his teeth. The man I suspected had no such torn place in his trousers.

“Then I thought of his coat. It was rolled, and in his boat. I examined the coat, men — and found what I sought. The hound had torn a bit of cloth from the coat—”

A commotion across the circle from Cal caused him to break off. Eph Diggs, the trapper-farmer, had suddenly leaped away from where he stood, his right hand gripping the butt of a revolver. His eyes were red and fiery, his lips drawn back and showing yellow, houndlike teeth. He swung his weapon up, its muzzle bearing on Cal.

“Damn you!” he shrieked. “Damn you, I’m goin’ to pay you out before I go—”

At that moment Murdock fired, his bullet shattering the gun arm of the killer. The next moment he was a prisoner.

“And you reasoned all that out, just from looking at the ax!” Lundsford exclaimed in an awed voice, a short while later.

“No,” Cal corrected. “It was the splitting edge. Had both blades been ground alike, the ax might have told me nothing. As it was, however, it narrowed the field, as I told you. That splitting edge pointed unmistakably toward some one who had only an occasional need for splitting. Following that lead,” he finished, “I got my man.”