To Kill A Mockingbird Summary Chapter 2

Marshal Samuel Wilcox kicked the blackened remains of Benjamin Gross's barn. A single wall stood, scarred black by flames. He kept his eye on the Pinkerton Detective, Hans Schmitt, while he examined Benjamin’s charred body. Wilcox stroked the hairs of his long gray beard. A pungent odor of death and flies began to collect.
"Most likely the work of Comanche’s. Must have come from the west, from Indian Territory,”
Schmitt circled the body. The aroma had no effect on the detective. His palm under his chin deep in thought.
"No sir, no fucking way this is Comanche’s,” his northern accent and manner irritated Wilcox. Why a Pinkerton might be interested in a crime such as this in such a remote place was beyond Wilcox’s comprehension. He had no need nor patience for Pinkertons.
"Yes sir appears to be Comanche's, those savages have come this way before."
"You are wrong, sheriff, this is not the work of a goddamn Comanche. Comanche’s would have run off with the horse, not just leave it
He entered the home. Stale air spent ashes in a wrought iron stove everything appeared normal, except for a rocking chair by the window and a half-empty bottle of whiskey upright on the floor. He uncorked the flagon and sniffed the liquid inside and took a quick drink. He wiped his whiskers, corked the bottle. Next to the rocker on a table, a brown leather bound book, a journal. Wilcox looked out the window. Schmitt walked across the field fixated on the ground and knelt and touched the damp earth. Schmitt had found a trail. Wilcox rested on the old rocking chair. Schmitt now on his horse headed south, bending to study the fresh tracks. Wilcox lifted the frail book and scanned its pages. Handwritten text, paper delicate and yellowed by age. Words flowed better than he could imagine. Details of a life, a soldier, a partisan and being an ex-soldier himself, Wilcox felt drawn to what those words might