He swore audibly, picked himself up, and held the cloth where the moon shone full upon it.

It looked like a sheet, or something of the sort, and near one edge was a moist patch of red.

He stared at it dismayed, crumpled the cloth into a compact bundle, tucked it under his arm, and ran on, his ears strained to catch some sound to guide him.
"Well, anyhow, I didn't kill him," he muttered uneasily as he crawled through a fence into the orchard.

"He's making a pretty swift get-away for a fellow that's been shot." In the orchard the patches of moonlight were larger, and across one of them he glimpsed a dark object, running wearily.

Grant repressed an impulse to shout, and used the breath for an extra burst of speed.