Well, the truth had come out, eventually. But the situation was still volatile in the Village of Old Ford.
"We were within our rights!" shouted the fat farmer Cadda. "The Long Feet were raiding our fields. We have the right to protect our own. We meant only to drive the creatures out of the area and send them on their way. Why, the only weapon Beda carried was his cudgel, and I bore no arms at all."
The Ranger Earendur could have pointed out that a huge hunting hound would be a formidable weapon against a three and a half foot tall opponent, but the good folk of Old Ford were not open to considering such fine distinctions. They were out for blood, driven by the loss of one of their own, and the hatred for those things unknown and "different".
Earendur would have preferred to view the scene of the "accident" and "murder" on his own, but the some Men of the village would follow him and Cadda back to the scene.
A shovel was produced and the ancient burrow was dug open. The few belongings left in the hole were rifled; a very small quiver, a finely woven willow basket, some few oddments of clothing, (no shoes, of course). And no weapons of any kind. A pathetic collection of belongings for an entire family. These folk had traveled light, and when they fled, they had left all they owned behind. None of the men even bothered to take anything for a souvenir.
The body of Man and Dog were farther up the hill, both killed by single, skillfully crafted arrows tipped with flint. The body of Beda was shrouded to be carried home. One of the farmers promised to return and bury the hound at the place of his "final kill." The man who said this had the decency to at least look a little uncomfortable after he had spoken.
Of course, no tracks were found by the villagers, and any that Earendur could have found were trampled by the others searching the site. The blood trail from the scene to the top of the hill was easy enough to follow. Earendur was certain that the Halfling could not have lived long from such a ferocious wound and the loss of so much blood.
After the villagers had left with their dead, the Ranger had scouted around the hill top, finally picking up such faint signs that might be left by the Hobytlan. It was when he reached the forest track that the mystery deepened, for the family seemingly had hitched a ride on a cart at this point!
He followed the trail to the campsite of the Hobytlan and their mysterious benefactor. He paused and offered reverence to the lonely barrow, and found that the remains of the family - which he had deduced to be two females, two children, and a male - had taken leave of their helper, and traveled south. The cart had continued northward.
Now what "Big Folk" would these Hobbits have possibly trusted, after the disaster they had lived through? A small smile came to Earendur's face as his eyes followed the cart-tracks down the trail. There was only one person that the Ranger could think of. He hoped he could find him again, to get his take on this sad tale.
Earendur had returned to Old Ford, but little more was to be learned. He had tried to diffuse the situation as much as he could, and knew that the Dunedain would have to be alert to any other such incidences, adding to their duties of the protection of this land, especially since the Darkness had descended on the Greenwood.
Two days later, the Ranger was in the stable, making one last check over his horse and gear before he left this town to return to his own lonely wandering. One last night in a semi-comfortable inn bed, and he would be gone at dawn.
In the darkness outside the stable, he heard the clear, high call of a nighthawk. It had not come from the sky though, but from a grove of trees behind the stables.
"I am alone, Perry. Come out. We have much to discuss."
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