White Christmas, bloody Christmas by M. Bruce Jones, Trudy J Smith Page A

A-Models belonging to a family who had gome that evening to see what had happened at the Lawson farm. When the family came back and opened the car door to go home, the cat bounded up onto the seat and looked at them. They started to shoo him out, but then realized that the cat would no longer have anyone to care
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    for him now that no one would be living at the Lawson farm. They took him home with them where he lived out the remainder of his life.
    Deep in the lonely pine thicket, Charlie Lawson continued to walk his endless circle. He had to do it. He pulled out his pocket watch and noted the time—it was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon. They would find him soon. Gritting his teeth, he positioned the shotgun one last time against the red, sore spot on his chest and pushed downward on the little twig...
    The crowd jumped as a shot rang out in the distance. They looked at each other. For one long moment, no one said a word. Mr. S.C. Hampton, Hill Hampton's father, was the first one to start out toward the sound. As he traveled farther away from the house, he noticed the footprints of a lone person in the deep snow. Following this trail, he found that it bypassed the generally-used road that ran through the Lawson farm. It led him into a large thicket of scraggly looking young pine trees.
    Cautiously, he advanced into the edge of the thicket, still anxious that he might encounter the murderer lurking there somewhere among the scrubby pines. Mr. Hampton hesitated momentarily. The white quietness of the late evening air was broken by the sorrowful baying of Charlie's two beagles. The sound was coming from only a short distance away. He quickened his pace. In a brief moment or two, the sounds of the dogs had led him to the spot where Charlie Lawson had fallen on his back in the snow. The steam was still rising from the warm, coagulating blood that had flowed from the gaping wound in his chest. On either side of Charlie's body lay his two dogs, Sam and Queen. They had faithfully remained by their master's side until the very end. The snow had melted around the circle where the dogs had lain while Charlie had packed the icy snow. Mr. Hampton stooped to check to see if Charlie was alive. In a moment, he stood up and shouted out one of his hunting yells and a loud,
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    "I've found him!" to signal the others who had begun to venture out in his direction. Within a few minutes, a large group of men were standing over Charlie Lawson's body.
    There was little doubt in anyone's mind that they had found the murderer. Charlie Lawson had taken the lives of his family and then killed himself. Everyone wondered why. Why would he do such a thing? Why, indeed.
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    Even after the authorities arrived, the bodies were left pretty much as they were in the house. Everyone was concerned about where Charlie Lawson might be. The growing crowd of people milled cautiously around the outskirts of the area around the home looking for signs of either Charlie or his body. Whoever had committed the crime, whether Charlie or some unknown murderer, could certainly still be in the area. They were careful not to venture far.
    By around 4:30 in the evening, the examinations and evidence gathering tasks were complete. Plans were made for a way that the bodies could be removed from the house. Mr. Hill Hampton took a flat-edged shovel and scooped the thick pools of blood from the floors and placed it in a metal wash tub and carried it down behind the Lawson house and buried it. (It was not poured out on the ground as was reported in many news articles.)
    His wife, Mrs. Sadie Hampton, brought her personal bedsheets from her home to be used as coverings for the bodies of her friends.
    Hearses had arrived and were waiting at the bottom of the hill, unable to pull up the snowy incline to the murder scene. They had a definite problem in deciding how to gracefully get all the bodies down the hill to the waiting vehicles. Finally, a make-shift sled was