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.”
“How ye happen to be up hyeh, ’Lige?” demanded Rutherford.
“We was goin’ up thar on that upper bench atter them curly-walnut stumps,” explained Honeycutt. “Feller offered me a good price fo’ stumps like that an’ I’d made arrangements for Hook-Dave hyeh to go along with us an’ blow ’em up. He knows how to handle dynamite. We was comin’ along that sheep path past this cliff when I jes’ happened to see the — body.”
“What time did ye first see Dave this mo’nin’?”
“ ’Bout seven o’clock, I reckon. Atter he come we waited a leetle while on Ranse hyeh, an’ then we had to wait till my boy got in with the dynamite. Must ’a’ been nigh onto ten o’clock when we got started.”
“On a guess, ’Lige,” continued Rutherford thoughtfully, “what time would ye say that this — happened?”
“Couldn’t say, sheriff. Might ’a’ been a hour — might ’a’ been half a day. To tell the truth I didn’t get dost. Thought I’d leave ever’thing jes’ as it is fo’ ye to examine.”
Rutherford nodded his approbation, and then stooped over and raised slightly the deputy’s body, extracting a silver, hunting-case watch. The rear of that watch was dented and battered, but the crystal, strangely enough, was intact. But the force of the fall had shattered the jewels and ruined the works.
The four spectators crowded about Rutherford and watched him as he tried to wind the timepiece. Then he shook his head.
“Looks like it happened at four minutes to nine o’clock,” declared ’Lige softly. “She stopped then. Is she bad broke, sheriff?”
“Plumb ruined.”
Rutherford shot a quick glance at Hook-Dave, but the latter’s expression was masked in indifference. His alibi was perfect. He had been with ’Lige and Ranse at that hour and could not have had a part in the murder.
“What do ye reckon he was doin’ up thar on top, sheriff?” queried ’Lige curiously.
“He was tryin’ to spot Hook-Dave’s still,” replied Rutherford bluntly.
With one accord the little knot wheeled and watched Dave, but the latter’s enigmatical smile could have meant anything. Me offered no denial of the charge of moonshining, but shrugged and resumed his seat upon the moss-covered bowlder.
“Let’s go up on top an’ see what we can see,” suggested Rutherford. “He must ’a’ been on that ledge up thar near the top.”
Up a precipitous path on the right of the cliff they toiled, the sheriff and Deputy Randall leading the way with the other three men following a few paces in the rear. Watching his chance Rutherford leaned close to the deputy and whispered:
“Keep yore eye on Hook-Dave, an’ if he makes a break for it, stop him — with a bullet.”
“Huh!” The deputy grunted his surprise. “His alibi—”
Rutherford’s gesture was one of warning and the deputy grew silent. A few minutes later they were on top of the precipice and gingerly advancing along a narrow ledge from which it was palpable that Bart Cantrell had fallen. At a point directly over the scene of the tragedy Rutherford halted and motioned to the others to remain where they were. Then inch by inch he went over the ground, seeking signs of a struggle, footprints — anything that might throw light on the mystery.
The surface of the ledge was bare stone, relieved here and there by tiny patches of moss and crevices. At its broadest point the ledge was not more than six feet wide and at the rear arose a wall of granite some twenty to thirty feet high. Just a few paces ahead of Rutherford the shelf narrowed and became sheer wall.
On hands and knees Rutherford examined the entire surroundings, keeping his back to the watchers as much as possible. Three times he found scratches upon the stone surface — four parallel marks about an eighth of an inch apart, and once he located a fresh cut along the jagged surface of the rear wall. Manifestly there had been a struggle, but the evidences of it were meager and vague.
At last he arose to his feet and stood tugging at his mustaches. Then with a deep sigh he drew near his companions.