He slid from the bed, and for a long moment stood cold and shaking, his every sense on the alert.  With infinite caution he got into his trousers and again paused to listen, since he feared his least movement might betray him.  Reassured, he picked up his battered hat from the floor and inch by inch crept across the squeaking boards to the window.  When the window was reached he paused once more to listen, but the quiet that was everywhere throughout the house gave him confidence.  He straddled the low sill, and putting out his hand gripped the stock of his rifle and drew that ancient weapon toward him.  Next he secured his pack, and was ready for flight.

Encumbered by his belongings, but with no mind to sacrifice them, he stepped out upon the shed and made his way down the slant of the roof to the eaves.  He tossed his bundle to the ground and going down on his knees lowered his rifle, letting the muzzle fall lightly against the side of the shed as it left his hand, then he lay flat on his stomach and, feet first, wriggled out into space.  When he could no longer preserve his balance, he gave himself a shove away from the eaves and dropped clear of the building.

As he recovered himself he was sure he heard a door open and close, and threw himself prone on the ground, where the black shadow cast by the tavern hid him.  At the same moment two dark figures came from about a corner of the building.  He could just distinguish that they carried some heavy burden between them and that they staggered as they moved.  He heard Slosson curse drunkenly, and a whispered word from Murrell.  The two men slowly crossed the truck patch, and the boy’s glance followed them, his eyes starting from his head.  Just at the mouth of the lane they paused and put down their burden; a few words spoken in a whisper passed between them and they began to drag some dark thing down the lane, their backs bent, their heads bowed and the thing they dragged bumping over the uneven ground.

They passed out of sight, and breathless and palsied, Hannibal crept about a corner of the tavern.  He must be sure!  The door 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—.