“I know the Turner boys and the Dickey boy is three of ’em,” said the old man, “and Henderson’s own boy, Davy—­poor leetle feller!—­ and Buddy Hopper, and the Adams boy.  They had a couple of guns, and they was all in this boat of Hopper’s, poking round the marsh, and it began to look like rain, and got dark.  Well, she was shipping a little water, and Hopper and Adams wanted to tie her to the edge and walk up over the marsh, but the other fellers wanted to go on round the point.  So Adams and Hopper left ’em, and come over the marsh, and walked to the point, but she wasn’t there.  Well, they waited and hallooed, but bimeby they got scared, and come flying up to Henderson’s, and Henderson and me—­there ain’t another man there to-night!—­we run down to the marsh, and yelled, but us two couldn’t do nothing!  Tide’s due at eleven, and it’s going to rain, so I left him, and come in for some men.  Henderson’s just about crazy!  They lost a boy in that tide-marsh a while back.”

“It’s too awful,—­it’s just murder to let ’em go there!” said Mary Bell, heart-sick.  For no dragon of old ever claimed his prey more regularly than did the terrible pools and quicksands of the great marsh.

Mrs. Bates was practical.  Her old face blanched, but she began to plan instantly.

“Don’t cry, Mary Bell!” said she; “this thing is in God’s hands.  He can save the poor little fellers jest as easy with a one-legged man as he could with a hundred hands.  You drive over to the depot, Stumpy, and tell the operator to plug away at Barville until he gets some one to take a message to Pitcher’s barn.  It’ll be a good three hours before they even git this far,” she continued doubtfully, as the old man eagerly rattled away, “and then they’ve got to get down to Henderson’s; but it may be an all-night search!  Now, lemme see who else we can git.  Deefy, over to the saloon, wouldn’t be no good.  But there’s Adams’s Chinee boy, he’s a good strong feller; you stop for him, and git Gran’pa Barry, too; he’s home to-night!”

“Look here, Mrs. Bates,” said Mary Bell, “shall I go?”

The old woman speculatively measured the girl’s superb figure, her glowing strength, her eager, resolute face.  Mary Bell was like a spirited horse, wild to be given her head.

“You’re worth three men,” said the storekeeper.

“Got light boots?”

“Yes,” said the girl, thrilled and quivering.

“You run git ’em!” said Mrs. Bates, “and git your good lantern.  I’ll be gitting another lantern, and some whiskey.  Poor little fellers!  I hope to God they’re all sneakin’ home—­afraid of a lickin’!—­this very minute.  And Mary Bell, you tell your mother I’ll close up, and come and sit with her!”