t the poor
lady--for a lady she air. Belike enough this thing'll be the death o'
her. She warn't strong at best, an' she's been a deal weaker since the
husban' died. Now the son's goed too--ah! Come along, an' le's show
her, she ain't forsook by everybody."

With the alacrity of a loyal heart, alike leaning to pity, the young
hunter promptly responds to the appeal, saying:--

"I'm with you, Woodley!"

The Death Shot--by Captain Mayne Reid

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

"TO THE SHERIFF!"

A day of dread, pitiless suspense to the mother of Charles Clancy, while
they are abroad searching for her son.

Still more terrible the night after their return--not without tidings of
the missing man. Such tidings! The too certain assurance of his
death--of his murder--with the added mystery of their not having been
able to find his body. Only his hat, his gun, his blood!

Her grief, hitherto held in check by a still lingering hope, now escapes
all trammels, and becomes truly agonising. Her heart seems broken, or
breaking.

Although without wealth, and therefore with but few friends, in her hour
of lamentation she is not left alone. It is never so in the backwoods
of the Far West; where, under rough home-wove coats, throb hearts gentle
and sympathetic, as ever beat under the finest broadcloth.

Among Mrs Clancy's neighbours are many of this kind; chiefly "poor
whites,"--as scornfully styled by the prouder planters. Some half-score
of them determine to stay by her throughout the night; with a belief
their presence may do something to solace her, and a presentiment that
ere morning they may be needed for a service yet more solemn. She has
retired to her chamber--taken to her bed; she may never leave either
alive.

As the night chances to be a warm one--indeed stifling hot, the men stay
outside, smoking their pipes in the porch, or reclining upon the little
grass plot in front of the dwelling, while within, by the bedside of the
bereaved widow, are their wives, sisters, and daughters.

Needless to say, that the conversation of those without relates
exclusively to the occurrences of the day, and the mystery of the
murder. For this, they all believe it to have been; though utterly
unable to make out, or conjecture a motive.

They are equally perplexed about the disappearance of the body; though
this adds not much to the mystery.

They deem it simply a corollary, and consequence, of the other. He, who
did the foul d