Here's where they pushed him in," said John Anderson pointing to the
break in the bank.

There was a buzzing in my ears, and the sunlight on the river was
dancing in ten thousand hideous curls and twists. The last of O'mie,
until maybe, a bloated sodden body might be found half buried in some
flood-wrought sand-bar. The May morning was a mockery, and every green
growing leaf seemed to be using the life force that should be in him.

"Yes, there's where he went in." It was Father Le Claire's voice now,
"but he fought hard for his life."

"Yeth, and by George, yonder'th where he come out. Thee that thaplin'
on the bank? It'th thplit, but it didn't break; an' that bank'th brokener'n
thith."

Oh, blessed Bud! His tow head will always wear a crown to me.

On the farther bank a struggle had wrenched the young trees and shrubs
away and a slide of slime marked where the victim of the waters had
fought for life. We knew how to swim, and we crossed the swollen creek
in a rush. But here all trace disappeared. Something or somebody had
climbed the bank. A horse's hoofs showed in the mud, but on the ground
beyond the horse's feet had not seemed to leave a track. The cruel
ruffians must have pushed him back when he tried to gain the bank here.
We hunted and hunted, but to no avail. No other mark of O'mie's having
passed beyond the creek could be found.

It was nearly sunset before we came back to town. Not a mouthful had
been eaten, and with the tenseness of the night's excitement stretching
every nerve, the loss of sleep, the constant searching, and the
heaviness of despair, mud-stained, wearied, and haggard, we dragged
ourselves to the tavern again. Other searchers had been going in
different directions. In one of these parties, useful, quick and wisely
counselling, was Jean Pahusca. His companions were loud in their praise
of his efforts. The Red Range neighborhood had received the word at noon
and turned out in a mass, women and children joining in the quest. But
it was all in vain. Wild theories filled the air, stories of strangers
struggling with somebody in the dark; the sound of screams and of some
one running away. But none of these stories could be substantiated. And
all the while what Tell Mapleson had said to Aunt Candace and me when
he came to warn us, kept repeating itself to me. "They're awful against
O'mie. They think he knows too much."

Early the next morning the search was renewed, but at nightfall no
furthe