ionless
as the Indian's behind him. It dawned upon us now that O'mie was lost,
there was no knowing how. O'mie, who belonged to the town and was loved
as few orphan boys are loved. Oh, any of us would have suffered for him,
and to think that he should be made the victim of rebel hate, that the
blow should fall on him who had given no offence. All his manliness, his
abounding kindness, his sunny smile and joy in living, swept up in
memory in the instant. Instinctively the boys drew near to one another,
and there came back to me the memory of that pathetic look in his eyes
as we talked of our troubles down in the tavern stables two nights
before: "Whoiver it's laid on to suffer," I could almost hear him saying
it. And then I did hear his voice, low and clear, a faint call again, as
I had heard it before.

"Phil, oh Phil, come!"

It shot through my brain like an arrow. I turned and seized Le Claire by
the hand.

"O'mie's not dead," I cried. "He's alive somewhere, and I'm going to
find him."

"You bet your life he'th not dead," Bud Anderson echoed me. "Come on."

The boys with Le Claire started in a body through the crowd; a shout
went up, a sudden determination that O'mie must be alive seemed to
possess Springvale.

"Stay with Cam and Dollie," Le Claire turned Dr. Hemingway back with a
word. "They need you now. We can do all that can be done."

He strode ahead of us; a stalwart leader of men he would make in any
fray. It flashed into my mind that it was not the Kiowa Indian blood
that made Jean Pahusca seem so stately and strong as he strode down the
streets of Springvale. A red blanket over Le Claire's broad shoulders
would have deceived us into thinking it was the Indian brave leading on
before us.

The river was falling rapidly, and the banks were slimy. Fingal's Creek
was almost at its usual level and the silt was crusting along its
bedraggled borders. Just above where it empties into the Neosho we noted
a freshly broken embankment as though some weight had crushed over the
side and carried a portion of the bank with it. Puddles of water and
black mud filled the little hollows everywhere. Into one of these I
stepped as we were eagerly searching for a trace of the lost boy. My
foot stuck to something soft like a garment in the puddle. I kicked it
out, and a jet button shone in the ooze. I stooped and lifted the grimy
thing. It was Marjie's cloak.

"This is the last of O'mie," Dave Mead spoke reverently.

"