"She was mighty purty, too," he said. "The feller waved his hat when he
seen her, an' she waved back. He run down an' jumped in the boat, an'
'nen--'nen--"

"Then what?" exploded Anderson Crow.

"He kissed her!"

"The d---- murderer!" roared Crow.

"He grabbed up the oars and rowed 'cross an' downstream. An' he shuck
his fist at me when he see I'd been watchin'," said the youngster, ready
to whimper now that he realised what a desperate character he had been
dealing with.

"Where did he land on the other side?" pursued the eager reporter.

"Down by them willer trees, 'bout half a mile down. There's the skift
tied to a saplin'. Cain't you see it?"

Sure enough, the stern of a small boat stuck out into the deep, broad
river, the bow being hidden by the bushes.

"Both of 'em hurried up the hill over yender, an' that's the last I seen
of 'em," concluded the lad.

Anderson Crow and his man-hunters stared helplessly at the broad, swift
river, and then looked at each other in despair. There was no boat in
sight except the murderer's, and there was no bridge within ten miles.