So in some sort
was it with the hunt for Will Brand. It was firmly believed that in the
course of it he was twice seen; once in the loneliness of Skiddaw Forest,
not far from the gamekeeper's hut, the only habitation in that moorland
waste; and once in a storm on the slopes of Great Dodd, when a shepherd,
"latin" his sheep, had suddenly perceived a wild-looking fellow, with a
gun between his knees, watching him from the shelter of a rock. So far
from making any effort to capture the man, the shepherd had fled in
terror; but both neighbours and police firmly believed that he had seen
the murderer. There were also various mysterious thefts of food reported
from mountain farms, indications hotly followed up but to no purpose.
Would the culprit, starved out, be forced in time to surrender; or would
he die of privation and exposure among the high fells, in the snowdrifts,
and leave the spring, when it came, to uncover his bones?
Toward the end of the month the snowstorms of its earlier days passed
into a chilly and continuous rain; there was still snow on the heights.
The steady downpour presently flooded the rivers, and sent the streams
racing in torrents down the hills.
Christmas was over. The new year was at hand. One afternoon, Boden,
oppressed in spirit, sallied forth from the Tower into the floods and
mists of St. John's Vale. He himself had taken no part in the great
pursuit. He believed now that the poor hunted creature would find his
lonely end among the wintry mountains, and rejoiced to think it might be
so.
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