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want to be fair,ā€ he said quietly. ā€œI havenā€™t indicted and condemned you in my mind already. If only half of what youā€™re tellinā€™ me is the truth, youā€™ve been through a hell of an experience, and I donā€™t want to be too hard on you. But you can see how hard it is for me to believe all youā€™ve told me.ā€

Griswell wearily motioned for him to lead the way, unspeaking. They went out into the hall, paused at the landing. A thin string of crimson drops, distinct in the thick dust, led up the steps.

ā€œManā€™s tracks in the dust,ā€ grunted Buckner. ā€œGo slow.

Iā€™ve got to be sure of what I see, because weā€™re obliteratinā€™ them as we go up. Hmmm! One set goinā€™ up, one cominā€™ down. Same man. Not your tracks. Branner was a bigger man than you are. Blood drops all the way - blood on the bannisters like a man had laid his bloody hand there - a smear of stuff that looks - brains. Now whatā€“ā€

ā€œHe walked down the stair, a dead man,ā€ shuddered Griswell. ā€œGroping with one hand - the other gripping the hatchet that killed him.ā€

ā€œOr was carried,ā€ muttered the sheriff. ā€œBut if somebody carried him - where are the tracks?ā€

They came out into the upper hallway, a vast, empty space of dust and shadows where time-crusted windows repelled the moonlight and the ring of Bucknerā€™s torch seemed inadequate. Griswell trembled like a leaf. Here, in darkness and horror, John Branner had died.

ā€œSomebody whistled up here,ā€ he muttered. ā€œJohn came, as if he were being called.ā€

Bucknerā€™s eyes were blazing strangely in the light.

ā€œThe footprints lead down the hall,ā€ he muttered. ā€œSame as on the stair - one set going, one coming. Same prints - Judas!ā€

Behind him Griswell stifled a cry, for he had seen what prompted Bucknerā€™s exclamation. A few feet from the head of the stair Brannerā€™s footprints stopped abruptly, then returned, treading almost in the other tracks. And where the trail halted there was a great splash of blood on the dusty floor - and other tracks met it - tracks of bare feet, narrow but with splayed toes. They too receded in a second line from the spot.

Buckner bent over them, swearing.

ā€œThe tracks meet! And where they meet thereā€™s blood and brains on the floor! Branner must have been killed on that spot - with a blow from a hatchet. Bare feet coming out of the darkness to meet shod feet - then both turned away again; the shod feet went downstairs, the bare feet went back down the hall.ā€ He directed his light down the hall. The footprints faded into darkness, beyond the reach of the beam. On either hand the closed doors of chambers were cryptic portals of mystery.

ā€œSuppose your crazy tale was true,ā€ Buckner muttered, half to himself. ā€œThese arenā€™t your tracks. They look like a womanā€™s. Suppose somebody did whistle, and Branner went upstairs to investigate. Suppose somebody met him here in the dark and split his head. The signs and tracks would have been, in that case, just as they really are. But if thatā€™s so, why isnā€™t Branner lyinā€™ here where he was killed? Could he have lived long enough to take the hatchet away from whoever killed him, and stagger downstairs with it?ā€

ā€œNo, no!ā€ Recollection gagged Griswell. ā€œI saw him on the stair. He was dead. No man could live a minute after receiving such a wound.ā€

ā€œI believe it,ā€ muttered Buckner. ā€œBut - itā€™s madness! Or else itā€™s too clever - yet, what sane man would think up and work out such an elaborate and utterly insane plan to escape punishment for murder, when a simple plea of self-defense would have been so much more effective? No court would recognize that story. Well, letā€™s follow these other tracks. They lead down the hall - here, whatā€™s this?ā€

With an icy clutch at his soul, Griswell saw the light was beginning to grow dim.

ā€œThis battery is new,ā€ muttered Buckner, and for the first time Griswell caught an edge of fear in his voice. ā€œCome on - out of here quick!ā€

The light had faded to a faint red glow. The darkness seemed straining into them, creeping with black cat-feet. Buckner retreated, pushing Griswell stumbling behind him as he walked backward, pistol cocked and lifted, down the dark hall. In the growing darkness Griswell heard what sounded like the stealthy opening of a door. And suddenly the blackness about them was vibrant with menace. Griswell knew Buckner sensed it as well as he, for the sheriffā€™s hard body was tense and taut as a stalking pantherā€™s.

But without haste he worked his way to the stair and backed down it, Griswell preceding him, and fighting the panic that urged him to scream and burst into mad flight. A ghastly thought brought icy sweat out on his flesh. Suppose the dead man were creeping up the stair behind them in the dark, face frozen in the death-grin, blood-caked hatchet lifted to strike?

This possibility so overpowered him that he was scarcely aware when his feet struck the level of the lower hallway, and he was only then aware that the light had grown brighter as they descended, until it now gleamed with its full power - but when Buckner turned it back up the stairway, it failed to illuminate the darkness that hung like a tangible fog at the head of the stair.

ā€œThe damn thing was conjured,ā€ muttered Buckner. ā€œNothinā€™ else. It couldnā€™t act like that naturally.ā€

ā€œTurn the light into the room,ā€ begged Griswell. ā€œSee if John - if John isā€“ā€

He could not put the ghastly thought into words, but Buckner understood.

He swung the beam around, and Griswell had never dreamed that the sight of the gory body of a murdered man could bring such relief.

ā€œHeā€™s still there,ā€ grunted Buckner. ā€œIf he walked after he was killed, he hasnā€™t walked since. But that thingā€“ā€

Again he turned the light up the stair, and stood chewing his lip and scowling. Three times he half lifted his gun. Griswell read his mind. The sheriff was tempted to plunge back up that stair, take his chance with the unknown. But common sense held him back.

ā€œI wouldnā€™t have a chance in the dark,ā€ he muttered. ā€œAnd Iā€™ve got a hunch the light would go out again.ā€

He turned and faced Griswell squarely.

ā€œThereā€™s no use dodginā€™ the question. Thereā€™s somethinā€™ hellish in this house, and I believe I have an inklinā€™ of what it is. I donā€™t believe you killed Branner. Whatever killed him is up there - now. Thereā€™s a lot about your yarn that donā€™t sound sane; but thereā€™s nothinā€™ sane about a flashlight goinā€™ out like this one did. I donā€™t believe that thing upstairs is human. I never met anything I was afraid to tackle in the dark before, but Iā€™m not goinā€™ up there until daylight. Itā€™s not long until dawn. Weā€™ll wait for it out there on that gallery.ā€

The stars were already paling when they came out on the broad porch. Buckner seated himself on the balustrade, facing the door, his pistol dangling in his fingers. Griswell sat down near him and leaned back against a crumbling pillar. He shut his eyes, grateful for the faint breeze that seemed to cool his throbbing brain. He experienced a dull sense of unreality. He was a stranger in a strange land, a land that had become suddenly imbued with black horror. The shadow of the noose hovered above him, and in that dark house lay John Branner, with his butchered head - like the figments of a dream these facts spun and eddied in his brain until all merged in a gray twilight as sleep came uninvited to his weary soul.

He awoke to a cold white dawn and full memory of the horrors of the night. Mists curled about the stems of the pines, crawled in smoky wisps up the broken walk. Buckner was shaking him.

ā€œWake up! Itā€™s daylight.ā€

Griswell rose, wincing at the stiffness of his limbs. His face was gray and old.

ā€œIā€™m ready. Letā€™s go upstairs.ā€

ā€œIā€™ve already been!ā€ Bucknerā€™s eyes burned in the early dawn. ā€œI didnā€™t wake you up. I went as soon as it was light. I found nothinā€™.ā€

ā€œThe tracks of the bare feetā€“ā€

ā€œGone!ā€

ā€œGone?ā€

ā€œYes, gone! The dust had been disturbed all over the hall, from the point where Brannerā€™s tracks ended; swept into corners. No chance of trackinā€™ anything there now. Something obliterated those tracks while we sat here, and I didnā€™t hear a sound. Iā€™ve gone through the whole house. Not a sign of anything.ā€

Griswell shuddered at the thought of himself sleeping alone on the porch while Buckner conducted his exploration.

ā€œWhat shall we do?ā€ he asked listlessly. ā€œWith those tracks gone there goes my only chance of proving my story.ā€

ā€œWeā€™ll take Brannerā€™s body into the county-seat,ā€ answered Buckner. ā€œLet me do the talkinā€™. If the authorities knew the facts as they appear, theyā€™d insist on you being confined and indicted. I donā€™t believe you killed Branner - but neither a district attorney, judge nor jury would believe what you told me, or what happened to us last night. Iā€™m handlinā€™ this thing my own way. Iā€™m not goinā€™ to arrest you until Iā€™ve exhausted every other possibility.

ā€œSay nothinā€™ about whatā€™s happened here, when we get to town. Iā€™ll simply tell the district attorney that John Branner was killed by a party or parties unknown, and that Iā€™m workinā€™ on the case.

ā€œAre you game to come back with me to this house and spend the night here, sleepinā€™ in that room as you and Branner slept last night?ā€

Griswell went white, but answered as stoutly as his ancestors might have expressed their determination to hold their cabins in the teeth of the Pequots: ā€œIā€™ll do it.ā€

ā€œLetā€™s go then; help me pack the body out to your auto.ā€

Griswellā€™s soul revolted at the sight of John Brannerā€™s bloodless face in the chill white dawn, and the feel of his clammy flesh. The gray fog wrapped wispy tentacles about their feet as they carried their grisly burden across the lawn.

The Snakeā€™s Brother

Again the shadows were lengthening over the pinelands, and again two men came bumping along the old road in a car with a New England license plate.

Buckner was driving. Griswellā€™s nerves were too shattered for him to trust himself at the wheel. He looked gaunt and haggard, and his face was still pallid. The strain of the day spent at the county-seat was added to the horror that still rode his soul like the shadow of a black-winged vulture. He had not slept, had not tasted what he had eaten.

ā€œI told you Iā€™d tell you about the Blassenvilles,ā€ said Buckner. ā€œThey were proud folks, haughty, and pretty damn ruthless when they wanted their way. They didnā€™t treat their slaves as well as the other planters did - got their ideas in the West Indies, I reckon. There was a streak of cruelty in them - especially Miss Celia, the last one of the family to come to these parts. That was long after the slaves had been freed, but she used to whip her mulatto maid just like she was a slave, the old folks sayā€¦ . The Negroes said when a Blassenville died, the devil was always waitinā€™ for him out in the black pines.

ā€œWell, after the Civil War they died off pretty fast, livinā€™ in poverty on the plantation which was allowed to go to ruin. Finally only four girls were left, sisters, livinā€™ in the old house and ekinā€™ out a bare livinā€™, with a few blacks livinā€™ in the old slave huts and workinā€™ the fields on the share. They kept to themselves, beinā€™ proud, and ashamed

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