the little sand bar in the Big River, his great, soft, beautiful
eyes watched first one bank and then the other. On the bank he
had left, he could see two black-and-white specks moving about,
and across the water came the barking of dogs. Those two specks
were the hounds who had driven him into the Big River. They were
barking now, instead of baying. Presently a brown form joined the
black-and-white specks. It was a hunter drawn there by the
barking of the dogs. He was too far away to be dangerous, but the
mere sight of him filled Lightfoot with terror again. He watched
the hunter walk along the bank and disappear in the bushes.

Presently out of the bushes came a boat, and in it was the
hunter. He headed straight towards Lightfoot, and then Lightfoot
knew that his brief rest was at an end. He must once more swim or
be shot by the hunter in the boat. So Lightfoot again struck out
for the shore. His rest had given him new strength, but still he
was very, very tired and swimming was hard work.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he drew nearer to the bank. What new
dangers might be waiting there, he did not know. He had never
been on that side of the Big River. He knew nothing of the
country on that side. But the uncertainty was better than the
certainty behind him. He could hear the sound of the oars as the
hunter in the boat did his best to get to him before he should
reach the shore.

On Lightfoot struggled. At last he felt bottom beneath his
feet. He staggered up through some bushes along the bank and then
for an instant it seemed to him his heart stopped beating. Right
in front of him stood a man. He had come out into the back yard