Tad, with a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach, wondered what other varieties of sudden death he would see illustrated before he left that filthy place. The morning was well along--it must have been after ten o’clock, Tad thought--when there was a sound of heavy hoofs galloping up the road, and several riders dismounted in the yard. The boy could hear them swearing at the horses and then greeting Murrell and his companions as they approached the door. These newcomers seemed to be members of the outlaw gang, for they spoke freely of Tad’s capture and asked the chief what he planned to do with his prize. As they came into the room below, one of them was roaring with laughter. Tad took up the board in order to hear better and found he could make out nearly everything that was said. “But the blankety-blankedest thing I ever saw, suh,” one of the new men was remarking, “was this big Hoosier broadhorn steerer comin’ up the Main Street. Seven foot if he was an inch--yes, suh, I’m not exaggeratin’ a particle--seven foot tall! He marches up to the first saloon he sees and asks the bar-keep if he knows anything about a boy that’s missin’. The man gives him some sort of a sassy answer, and next thing he knows this long-legged river hand has grabbed him by the neck and flung him out in the middle of the road. “Fight? No, there was no fight. The Hoosier just goes along and leaves him there. At the next place the same thing happens, only the bartender saves his skin by apologizin’ mighty quick when he sees that long arm comin’. So it goes all the way up the street. “Finally he gets to Nolan’s place. By this time there’s quite a crowd of flatboat and keel-boat men followin’ along to see the fun. An’ drinkin’ at Nolan’s bar is some ark hand that pipes up and says yes, indeed, he saw the boy. He was bein’ carried off by three men on horseback, ridin’ hell-for-leather up the South Bluff road. “‘What did they look like?’ asks Longshanks, and the fellow tells him that the one holdin’ the boy was tall and rode a big sorrel horse with three white stockin’s. “At that, half the river-men in the crowd shout ‘Jack Murrell,’ and there’s a grand howdy-do. The big Hoosier tries to find out where you’d be likely to take the boy, but of course no one knows a thing. “I understand he’s gone up to Natchez-on-the-Hill this mornin’, to try to raise a posse.” Tad heard Murrell’s lazy laugh. “Huh,” said the leader, “he won’t get far there. What say, Carson, want to have a look at the youngster?” There was a sound of boots that warned Tad to put the board back in position. He crawled back into the corner where the shadows were deepest and turned the filed place in the fetter carefully under his ankle. When the door opened he sat there sullen-faced, picking at the ragged edges of his shirt sleeve with listless fingers.