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Xenophon rose to his feet. He stretched a long, bony arm straight to the west, where the Cross-Roads lay; stood rigid and silent, like a seer; then spoke: "De men whut shot Marse Hawkliss lies yondeh, hidin' f'um de light o' day. An' him" he swerved his whole rigid body till the arm pointed northwest "he lies yondeh. You won't find him heah. Dey fought 'im een de fiel's an' dey druggen 'im heah.
He looked up at the circle about him, and, still kneeling, not taking his hand from the sand, seeming to wait for a sign, to listen for a voice, he said: "Whafo' you gelmun think de good Lawd summon Marse Hawkliss? Kaze he de mos' fittes'? You know dat man he ketch me in de cole night, wintuh 'to' lais', stealin' 'is wood. You know whut he done t'de ole thief?
When he spoke his voice was gentle, and though the tremulousness of age harped on the vocal strings, it was rigidly controlled. "Kin some kine gelmun," he asked, "please t'be so good ez t' show de ole main whuh de W'ite-Caips is done shoot Marse Hawkliss?" "Here was where it happened, Uncle Zen," answered Wiley, leaning him forward. "Here is the stain."
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