"Take the dog up to that rock, there, Bill," said the Captain, "and set him on that devil's trail.

Five more of you dismount, and deploy there on the other side of the road.

All of you move forward cautiously, watching the dog, and make sure you 'save' teh whelp when he is run out." The men left their saddles and moved forward with manifest reluctance.
They had the highly emotional nature usual in the poor white of the South, and this was deeply depressed by the weird loneliness that brooded over everything, and the bloodshed they had witnessed.
Their thirst for vengeance was being tempered rapidly by a growing superstitious fear.

There was something supernatural in these mysterious killings.

Each man, therefore, only moved forward as he felt the Captain's eye on him, or his comrades advanced.
The dog, after some false starts, got the scent, and started to follow Fortner's footsteps.
"He's done tuck the trail, Cap'n," called back one of the men.
"All right," answered the officer, "don't take your eyes off of him for a second till he trees the game." But the logs and rocks and the impenetrable darkness in the shadows made it impossible to follow the movements of the hound every moment.