--nock any plea of self-defense in the head. Branner couldn't have swung at you with this hatchet after you split his skull with it. You must have pulled the ax out of his head, stuck it into the floor and clamped his fingers on it to make it look like he's attacked you. And it would have been damned clever--if you-- used another hatchet.----ut I didn't kill him,--groaned Griswell.--have no intention of pleading self-defense.----hat-- what puzzles me,--Buckner admitted frankly, straightening.--hat murderer would rig up such a crazy story as you--e told me, to prove his innocence? Average killer would have told a logical yarn, at least. Hmmm! Blood drops leadin'tfrom the door. The body was dragged--no, couldn't have been dragged. The floor isn't smeared. You must have carried it here, after killin'thim in some other place. But in that case, why isn't there any blood on your clothes? Of course you could have changed clothes and washed your hands. But the fellow hasn't been dead long.----e walked downstairs and across the room,--said Griswell hopelessly.--e came to kill me. I knew he was coming to kill me when I saw him lurching down the stair. He struck where I would have been, if I hadn't awakened. That window--I burst out at it. You see it's broken.----see. But if he walked then, why isn't he walkin'tnow?----don't know! I-- too sick to think straight. I--e been fearing that he's rise up from the floor where he lies and come at me again. When I heard that wolf running up the road after me, I thought it was John chasing me--John, running through the night with his bloody ax and his bloody head, and his death-grin!-- His teeth chattered as he lived that horror over again.
Buckner let his light play across the floor.
--he blood drops lead into the hall. Come on. We--l follow them.-- Griswell cringed.--hey lead upstairs.-- Buckner-- eyes were fixed hard on him.
--re you afraid to go upstairs, with me?-- Griswell-- face was gray.
--es. But I-- going, with you or without you. The thing that killed poor John may still be hiding up there.----tay behind me,--ordered Buckner.--f anything jumps us, I--l take care of it. But for your own sake, I warn you that I shoot quicker than a cat jumps, and I don't often miss. If you--e got any ideas of layin'tme out from behind, forget them.----on't be a fool!--Resentment got the better of his apprehension, and this outburst seemed to reassure Buckner more than any of his protestations of innocence.
-- want to be fair,--he said quietly.--haven't indicted and condemned you in my mind already. If only half of what you--e tellin'tme is the truth, you--e been through a hell of an experience, and I don't want to be too hard on you. But you can see how hard it is for me to believe all you--e told me.-- 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.
--an't tracks in the dust,--grunted Buckner.--o slow, I--e got to be sure of what I see, because we--e obliteratin'tthem as we go up. Hmmm! One set goin'tup, one comin'tdown. 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 what--
--e walked down the stair, a dead man,--shuddered Griswell.--roping with one hand--the other gripping the hatchet that killed him.----r was carried,--muttered the sheriff.--ut if somebody carried him--where are the tracks?--
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 Buckner-- torch seemed inadequate. Griswell trembled like a leaf. Here, in the darkness and horror, John Branner had died.
--omebody whistled up here,--he muttered.--ohn came, as if he were being called.-- Buckner-- eyes were blazing strangely in the light.
--he footprints lead down the hall,--he muttered.--ame as on the stair--one set going, one coming. Same prints--Judas!-- Behind him Griswell stifled a cry, for he had seen what prompted Buckner-- exclamation. A few feet from the head of the stair Branner-- 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.
--he tracks meet! And where they meet there-- 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.--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.
--uppose your crazy tale was true,--Buckner muttered, half to himself.--hese aren't your tracks. They look like a woman't. 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 that-- so, why isn't Branner lyin'there where he was killed? Could he have lived long enough to take the hatchet away from whoever killed him, and stagger downstairs with it?----o, no!--Recollection gagged Griswell.--saw him on the stair. He was dead. No man could live a minute after receiving such a wound.----believe it,--muttered Buckner.--ut--it's madness! Or else it'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, let-- follow these other tracks. They lead down the hall--here, what-- this?-- With an icy clutch at his soul, Griswell saw the light was beginning to grow dim.
--his battery is new,--muttered Buckner, and for the first time Griswell caught an edge of fear in his voice.--ome on--out of here quick!-- 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 sheriff--hard body was tense and taut as a stalking panther--.
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.
--he damn thing was conjured,--muttered Buckner.--othin'telse. It couldn't act like that naturally.----urn the light into the room,--begged Griswell.--ee if John--if John is--
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.
--e-- still there,--grunted Buckner.--f he walked after he was killed, he hasn't walked since. But that thing--