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
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.
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