Nettleton waited for no other words, but turning, proceeded at once to the spot where Hayward received the fatal stab. He sat down for a time, silent and mournful, gazing into the water. He then commenced a scrutinizing search. He became satisfied that the body could not have floated down the river, on account of the shallowness of the water. He crossed the stream, searched upon the opposite bank, and there found the footprints of a number of men. He followed the tracks, and found that _two_ persons had descended _into_ the river, and out again, near the same spot. He took the measurement of each impression in the mud, and then exclaimed: “I’ll be darned if Lieutenant Wells’ boot made any of _them_ marks! I know how it is. Captain must have come here last night to think, and some of them darn rebel skunks come up behind him suddenly, and killed him, and then two of them crossed over and got his body, and brought it back, and that accounts for the tracks in and out of the water. But what did they want with him if he was dead? Perhaps he wasn’t quite killed, and they took him prisoner. I’ll follow these tracks, anyway.” Nettleton followed up the footmarks until they merged into the turnpike, which was so cut up with travel as to prevent him tracing them further. He now returned to the fatal spot. Bending down he examined the earth, still red with blood. Something appeared to interest him, and creeping on his knees, he followed a footprint to the edge of the stream. Here was an impression of _two_ boots, side by side, in the mud. Nettleton gazed upon them for a few moments. His breast heaved violently—he clenched his hands, and at last said: “I’ve blacked _them_ boots. I know ’em well—there is the impression of the _two hearts_ in the mud, and there ain’t but one pair of boots in our camp as has _two hearts_ made with nails in the ball of each boot. Oh, you darn—” Something caught the eye of Nettleton in the water. He sprung in and secured it. It proved to be a handkerchief, which bore a name upon the corner. He gazed upon it a moment, and said: “The man as had on _them_ boots stood in _them_ tracks, and washed himself in that river. He wiped upon this hankercher and then threw it into the water. Folks as washes the evidence of murder off their hands, don’t wash in the river, throw away the wiper, and then take a tin pot of bloody water to—” “What the devil are you doing here?” Nettleton turned to behold a party of six horsemen who had suddenly approached him. In his anxiety he had forgotten to change his clothing—that is, to cover his blue uniform with the rough gray suit he wore underneath. “So, you are a Yankee soldier,” exclaimed one of the party. “No I ain’t; I’m a darn skunk.” This reply, and the ungainly appearance of Nettleton, caused a laugh throughout the entire party. “You are not a Yankee soldier? Then what are you doing with that uniform?”