Page:Weird Tales Volume 35 Issue 04 (1940-07).djvu/43

THE house was still empty when they got there. Pursuivant moved away through the back yard, across a meadow and among brush and small trees at the foot of the hillside. It was as bright and hot as a tropical seashore. The judge’s blue eyes had found and followed the trail of Ransome’s tennis shoes. Pitts followed just behind.

“It’s bad stuff, hunting rabbits,” he chattered. “Folks around here don’t believe in it—and when people don’t believe—”

“It’s best to string along with such beliefs, I agree,” finished Pursuivant for him. “Look, Mr. Pitts. He found a rabbit trail here—fresh.”

They could see that Ransome had squatted down above the pattern of little paw-prints in the leaf-mold; his toes only made deep depressions, and beside them was the narrow oval where he had rested the gunstock. Then he had risen and followed the game slantwise up the hill. Pursuivant and Pitts went up after him, through dragging belts and tangles of brush, some of it thorny. Pitts spoke again:

“Look, Judge.” He pointed with a knobby old forefinger to a whole clutter of tracks. “More rabbits—Mr. Ransome’s hunting a mess of them.”

The judge’s shaggy head shook. “I’m afraid not. See here—some of the paw-prints fall over Mr. Ransome’s shoe-marks. This bunch—flock—whatever you call a number of rabbits—it came along later. Mr. Ransome is hunting only that first one that made the lone trail.”

“I see,” said Pitts softly. "I see; and these other rabbits—are—hunting Mr. Ransome!”

IT WAS hotter than they had thought, as they pushed through one more clump of brambly growth, and came to where hunters and hunted had met.

They had not the time nor the wish to read more than the essentials of the story written in large tracks and small upon the soft, spurned earth. Pursuivant began talking swiftly, pointing here and there.

“Look! Ransome stopped and, probably, aimed his gun. He was looking yonder, perhaps at that dark hollow place among those vine-grown saplings. The rabbit must have stopped there.” He crossed over and peered. “Yes—see! The tracks were turned toward Ransome. It stopped and turned on its heels, to look at him.”

“Like it was mocking him,” said Pitts, and swallowed hard.

Pursuivant looked at the leaves behind the tracks. They were cut to pieces by shot—Ransome must have fired both barrels at that rabbit as it sat up to gaze at him. And then—

Pitts was down on one knee. “They swarmed over him as he fired!” he cried shakily. “Look, Judge—they rushed him from behind, right here!”

Pursuivant made a step and bent to pick up something from a patch of leafy weeds. “His gun!” he said, and snapped open the breech. “Both barrels were fired—he must have thrown it at them. Then he was unarmed.”

He returned to where Pitts kneeled. The flurry of tracks seemed to say that Ransome had fallen, as under the impact of many missiles; what those missiles were could be deduced from the strength of certain hind-leg marks, telling of how rabbits had sprung straight upward and at the face or chest. The gun still in his hand, Pursuivant stooped to make out what had happened to Ransome then.

Here were hand-prints, deeply driven, as though weight had been supported upon the palms. Here was the scrape of a dragged knee, and another, with repetitions beyond—yes, Ransome had crept upon his hands and knees, stunned, wretched, driven. For at either flank of