of the bar stood open; the lamps were still burning, and the
upturned chairs and a broken table told of the struggle that had
taken place there. The boy rested his hand on the top step as he
stared fearfully into the room. His palm came away with a great
crimson splotch. But he was not satisfied yet. He must be sure
--sure! He passed around the building as the men had done and
crossed the truck patch to the mouth of the lane. Here he slid
through the fence into the corn-field, and, well sheltered,
worked his way down the rows. Presently he heard a distant
sound--a splash--surely it was a splash--.

A little later the men came up the lane, to disappear in the
direction of the tavern. Hannibal peered 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