Table of Contents
| CHAPTER ONE | [1] |
| CHAPTER TWO | [10] |
| CHAPTER THREE | [18] |
| CHAPTER FOUR | [23] |
| CHAPTER FIVE | [30] |
| CHAPTER SIX | [45] |
| CHAPTER SEVEN | [52] |
| CHAPTER EIGHT | [59] |
| CHAPTER NINE | [65] |
| CHAPTER TEN | [74] |
| CHAPTER ELEVEN | [88] |
| CHAPTER TWELVE | [99] |
| CHAPTER THIRTEEN | [105] |
| CHAPTER FOURTEEN | [120] |
| CHAPTER FIFTEEN | [126] |
| CHAPTER SIXTEEN | [136] |
| CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | [144] |
| CHAPTER EIGHTEEN | [152] |
| CHAPTER NINETEEN | [162] |
| CHAPTER TWENTY | [173] |
| CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | [180] |
| CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO | [185] |
| CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE | [194] |
| CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR | [202] |
| CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE | [214] |
| CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX | [226] |
| CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN | [234] |
| CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT | [241] |
| CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE | [256] |
| CHAPTER THIRTY | [263] |
| CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE | [271] |
| CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO | [277] |
| CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE | [282] |
| CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR | [289] |
| CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE | [300] |
| CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX | [307] |
| CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN | [311] |
| CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT | [326] |
| CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE | [335] |
“FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING”
CHAPTER ONE
One afternoon in late October four lean mules, with stringy muscles dragging over their bones, stretched long legs at the whirring of their master's whip. The canalman was a short, ill-favored brute, with coarse red hair and freckled skin. His nose, thickened by drink, threatened the short upper lip with obliteration. Straight from ear to ear, deep under his chin, was a zigzag scar made by a razor in his boyhood days, and under emotion the injured throat became convulsed at times, causing his words to be unintelligible. The red flannel shirt, patched with colors of lighter shades, lay open to the shoulders, showing the dark, rough skin.
"Git—git up!" he stuttered; and for some minutes the boat moved silently, save for the swish of the water and the patter of the mules' feet on the narrow path by the river.
From the small living-room at one end of the boat came the crooning of a woman's voice, a girlish voice, which rose and fell without tune or rhythm. Suddenly the mules came to a standstill with a "Whoa thar!"
"Pole me out a drink, Scraggy," bawled the man, "and put a big snack of whisky in it—see?"