after them. His very terrors, while they
wrenched and tortured him, gave him a desperate kind of courage. As
the gloom hid the two men, he started forward again; he must know the
meaning of that sound--that splash, if it was a splash. He reached the
end of the cornfield, climbed the fence, and entered a deadening of
slashed and mutilated timber. In the long wet grass he found where the
men had dragged their burden. He reached down and swept his hand to
and fro--once--twice--the third time his little palm came away red and
discolored.

There was the first pale premonition of dawn in the sky, and as he
hurried on the light grew, and the black trunks of trees detached
themselves from the white mist that filled the woods and which the
dawn made visible. There was light enough for him to see that he was
following the trail left by the men; he could distinguish where the dew
had been brushed from the long grass. Advancing still farther, he heard
the clear splash of running water, an audible ripple that mounted into
a silver cadence. Day was breaking now. The lifeless gray along the
eastern horizon had changed to orange. Still following the trail, he
emerged upon the bank of the Elk River, white like the woods with its
ghostly night sweat.

The dull beat of the child's heart quickened as he gazed out on the
swift current that was hurrying on with its dreadful secret. Then
the full comprehension of his loss seemed to overwhelm him and he was
utterly desolate. Sobs shook him, and he dropped on his knees, holding
fast to the stock of his rifle.

"Uncle Bob--Uncle Bob, come back! Can't you come back!" he wailed
miserably. Presently he staggered to his feet. Convulsive sobs still
wrenched his little body. What was he to do? Those men--his Uncle Bob's
murderers--would go to his room; they would find his empty bed and their
search for him would begin! Not for anything would he have gone back
through the corn-field or the lane to the road. He had the courage to
go forward, but not to retrace his steps; and the river, deep and
swift, barred his path. As he glanced about, he saw almost at his feet a
dug-out, made from a single poplar log. It was secured to an overhanging
branch by a length of wild grape-vine. With one last fearful look off
across the deadening in the direction of the tavern, he crept down to
the water's edge and entered the canoe. In a moment, he had it free from
its lashing and the rude craft was bumping along the