water, an audible ripple that mounted into a silver cadence. Day
was breaking now. The lifeless gray along the eastern horizon
had changed to orange. Still following the trail, he emerged
upon the bank of the Elk River, white like the woods with its
ghostly night sweat.

The dull beat of the child's heart quickened as he gazed out on
the swift current that was hurrying on with its dreadful secret.
Then the full comprehension of his loss seemed to overwhelm him
and he was utterly desolate. Sobs shook him, and he dropped on
his knees, holding fast to the stock of his rifle.

"Uncle Bob--Uncle Bob, come back! Can't you come back!" he
wailed miserably. Presently he staggered to his feet.
Convulsive sobs still wrenched his little body. What was he to
do? Those men--his Uncle Bob's murderers--would go to his room;
they would find his empty bed and their search for him would
begin! Not for anything would he have gone back through the
corn-field or the lane to the road. He had the courage to go
forward, but not to retrace his steps; and the river, deep and
swift, barred his path. As he glanced about, he saw almost at
his feet a dug-out, made from a single poplar log. It was
secured to an overhanging branch by a length of wild grape-vine.
With one last fearful look off across the deadening in the
direction of the tavern, he crept down to the water's edge and
entered the canoe. In a moment, he had it free from its lashing
and the rude craft was bumping along the bank in spite of his
best efforts with the paddle. Then a favoring current caught it
and swept it out toward the center of the stream.