The Gothic Terror MEGAPACK™: 17 Classic Tales by Henry James, Ann Radcliffe, J. Sheridan Le Fanu, Gertrude Atherton

you so. It is a trail I had cut to a number of board trees we had rived on the ground. They were scattered about a good deal, but none of them far from any given place, where you would strike the road, so that you were no great distance at any time, from where this meeting occurred. We must turn out and look for this creature, boys.”
    “I expected to find the horse; he—he came on in this direction,” said Henrie.
    “No,” said the Squire, “Stoner’s house is beyond here.” Henrie now seated himself at the table; and great as was the uncertainty attending the fate of Stoner, these men were too much accustomed to the vicissitudes and accidents in the life of the frontier hunter to be affected by it for more than a few moments, and the joke and the laugh very soon went round as carelessly and pleasantly as if nothing had occurred at all unusual.
    In the midst of this the rapid tramp of a horse at full gallop was heard approaching. The Squire rose hastily and went out, while the room grew oppressively still. In a few moments he returned, with contracted brows, and quite pale.
    “Stoner’s negro has been sent over by his wife to let us know that his horse has returned, with his reins on his neck and blood on the saddle. He has been shot, gentlemen.”
    We all rose involuntarily at this and stood with blank, white faces, looking into each other’s eyes.
    “The madman!” said one, speaking in subdued tones, breaking the oppressive silence.
    “Henrie’s bearded ghost,” said another.
    “Yes,” exclaimed several, “devil or ghost, that’s the way it has happened.”
    “I tell you what, Henrie,” said the Squire, “it has occurred to me ever since you finished your story, that this singular being has been on the lookout for Stoner, and while you rode with your head down, thought that you were he, for there are several points of resemblance, such as size, color of your horses, etc., but that in the long look he took at your face he discovered his mistake; and, after leaving you, passed over to the left, and met Stoner returning, and has shot him. He is one of the Regulators, though, and Hinch is a very bloodhound. I shall send for him to be here in the morning with the boys, and they will trail him up, if he is the devil in earnest, and have vengeance before sundown tomorrow.”
    This seemed the most reasonable solution of some of the inexplicable features of the affair; and, as it was too dark to think of accomplishing anything that night, we had to content ourselves with a sound sleep preparatory for action on the morrow.
    Soon after daybreak, we were awakened by the sound of loud blustering voices about the house. I felt sure that this must be Hinch’s party; and on looking out of my window, saw them dismounted and grouped about the yard. I recognized the voice of our host in sharp, decisive altercation with someone, whose harsh, overbearing tones convinced me that it must be Hinch. I listened anxiously, and heard him swear in round terms, that Henrie’s story was all gammon, an “old woman’s tale,” that he didn’t believe a word of it; but if Stoner was murdered, Henrie was the man who did it. I could only distinguish that the Planter’s tone was angry and decided, when they moved on out of hearing. How he managed to quiet him I cannot conjecture, (Henrie, fortunately, heard nothing of it,) but when we joined them, Hinch greeted us with a gruff sort of civility. He was a thick-set, broad-shouldered, ruffian-looking fellow; wearing the palpable marks of the debauchee in his bloated person and red visage.
    We were soon underway. A ride of nearly half the day through the scenes of yesterday’s adventures elicited nothing, and we were all getting impatient, when fortunately Henrie’s search, undertaken at my earnest suggestion, was successful in recognizing the place where he witnessed the curious apparition of the evening before. On close examination, the moccasined tracks were discovered, and with