“Looky here, Huck, I’ll tell you one thing that’s mighty curious. Up to the time we went out last night the family hadn’t heard about Jake Dunlap being murdered. Now the men that chased Hal Clayton and Bud Dixon away would spread the thing around in a half an hour, and every neighbor that heard it would shin out and fly around from one farm to t’other and try to be the first to tell the news. Land, they don’t have such a big thing as that to tell twice in thirty year! Huck, it’s mighty strange; I don’t understand it.” So then he was in a fidget for the rain to let up, so we could turn out and run across some of the people and see if they would say anything about it to us. And he said if they did we must be horribly surprised and shocked. We was out and gone the minute the rain stopped. It was just broad day then. We loafed along up the road, and now and then met a person and stopped and said howdy, and told them when we come, and how we left the folks at home, and how long we was going to stay, and all that, but none of them said a word about that thing; which was just astonishing, and no mistake. Tom said he believed if we went to the sycamores we would find that body laying there solitary and alone, and not a soul around. Said he believed the men chased the thieves so far into the woods that the thieves prob’ly seen a good chance and turned on them at last, and maybe they all killed each other, and so there wasn’t anybody left to tell. First we knowed, gabbling along that away, we was right at the sycamores. The cold chills trickled down my back and I wouldn’t budge another step, for all Tom’s persuading. But he couldn’t hold in; he’d _got_ to see if the boots was safe on that body yet. So he crope in—and the next minute out he come again with his eyes bulging he was so excited, and says: [Illustration: Huck, it’s gone!] “Huck, it’s gone!” I _was_ astonished! I says: “Tom, you don’t mean it.” “It’s gone, sure. There ain’t a sign of it. The ground is trampled some, but if there was any blood it’s all washed away by the storm, for it’s all puddles and slush in there.” At last I give in, and went and took a look myself; and it was just as Tom said—there wasn’t a sign of a corpse. “Dern it,” I says, “the di’monds is gone. Don’t you reckon the thieves slunk back and lugged him off, Tom?” “Looks like it. It just does. Now where’d they hide him, do you reckon?” “I don’t know,” I says, disgusted, “and what’s more I don’t care. They’ve got the boots, and that’s all I cared about. He’ll lay around these woods a long time before I hunt him up.” Tom didn’t feel no more intrust in him neither, only curiosity to know what come of him; but he said we’d lay low and keep dark and it wouldn’t be long till the dogs or somebody rousted him out. We went back home to breakfast ever so bothered and put out and disappointed and swindled. I warn’t ever so down on a corpse before. CHAPTER VIII. TALKING WITH THE GHOST