The trail led through what is known as “Robbers’ Hollow,” a ravine that runs in a trough through the winding hills, whose rugged sides looked jagged and terrible, surrounded by a savage darkness full of snares, where it was fearful to penetrate and appalling to stay. In spite of all, they hurried on faster and faster. Far ahead the pilot note of the hound called them on and they were well nigh exhausted when they came upon him, baying furiously at a cabin built on the naked side of a hill, around which there was not a tree or bush to shelter a man from bullets, should the occupants resist arrest. As the sheriff and his men arrived, the hound flung his note in the air and sent up a long howl, then dashed against the door, which shook and strained from the shock. The sheriff called him to heel and placed his men at corners of the cabin. He then rapped on the door and repeated it half a dozen times before there was a response. Finally a man came to the front. “Who wants me this time of night?” he grumbled, in a deep, gruff voice, as he stood in the doorway, his broad chest and arms showing strongly dark in the light of the lamp he held. “I do,” answered the sheriff. “Do you live here?” “No, sir.” “When did you come here, and from where?” “From the other side of Georgetown, and I got here ’bout an hour before dark.” “Why, Mr. Cooley,” whispered a voice at his elbow, “it was way arter dark.” “Sh!” he stuttered, shuffling his feet that the men might not hear anything else she said. “What is your name and occupation?” resumed the sheriff, calmly. “Ephriam Cooley, and I teach school ten miles north of Georgetown.” His speech was not that of a common negro, but of a lettered man, and seemed strangely at variance with his bearded, scowling face. “Have you a knife? I would like to borrow it, if you’ve got one?” “No, sir, I left my knife in my other pants’ pocket.” “But you’ve got a razor, haven’t you? Let me have it,” said the sheriff. “One of our men broke his girth and unfortunately we have no way of fixing it, as there is not a knife in the crowd.” There was a slight agitation in the negro’s manner as he turned to find the razor, or rather to pretend to search for it. The sheriff pushed in after him. “Maybe I can help you find it?” he said, as he picked up a coat from under one corner of the rumpled bed. A razor dropped to the floor. The negro made a move toward it, but the sheriff’s foot held it fast. “You need not trouble yourself; I will get it,” he said, as he stooped and raised it. “Bloodstained? Why, what does this mean?” “I killed a dog,” the negro muttered, his mouth parched with terror, his vicious eyes shooting forth venomous flashes. “I’d kill anybody’s dog before I’d let him bite me. Was it your dog?” and he shrank slightly away. “No,” said the sheriff, “it was not mine, but I am afraid you made a great mistake in killing that dog! Come, get yourself dressed and show it to me.”