"
As the Scotchman spoke he was picking up the horse's hoofs, and digging
at them with a bit of stick.
"They're as clean as if they'd just been washed," he said, as he
straightened up. "By Heaven! I have it, Hardwick--that fellow came into
town with his hoofs muffled."
The younger man looked also, and assented mutely, then suggested:
"He hasn't come far; there's not a hair turned on him."
The Scotchman shook his head. "I'm not sure of that," he debated.
"Likely he's been led, and that slowly. God--this is horrible!"
Mechanically Hardwick got some hay down for the horse, while MacPherson
pulled off the saddle and bridle, examining both in the process. Grain
was poured into the box, and then water offered.
"He won't drink," murmured the Scotchman. "D'ye see, Hardwick? He won't
drink. You can't come into Cottonville without crossing a stream. This
fellow's hoofs have been wet within an hour--yes, within the half-hour."
As their eyes encountered, Hardwick caught his breath sharply; both felt
that chill of the cuticle, that stirring at the roots of the hair, that
marks the passing close to us of some sinister thing--stark murder, or
man's naked hatred walking in the dark beside our cheerful, commonplace
path. By one consent they turned back from the stable and went together
to Mrs. Gandish's. The house was dark.
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