READY FOR ACTION
★
At the wharf the sheriff dickered for the rental of a boat and a 20-foot
craft with a sturdy four cylinder motor was secured. There was nothing
speedy about it, but it looked eminently safe.
“We may be gone a couple of nights. I know where I can get some duffel
and grub. You’d better send word for more of your men to get in here,”
said the sheriff, and while he went in quest of the camping supplies, Bob
walked back to the station.
He had been warned to use extreme caution in sending out any messages
from Atalissa, but there was no time to drive to another town and he
preferred to telegraph rather than to telephone.
The message went in code and it took him some time to compose it. Very
briefly he outlined what he had learned from the sheriff, concluding,
“Now believe Merritt Hughes has been brought to Lost Island and that
attempt to bring in large amount of gems will be made soon.”
Bob did not leave the old depot until the telegram was humming over the
wires on its way to Washington. Then he returned to the wharf and found
the sheriff waiting.
“We’ll start at once,” said the officer. “I’ve got a snack put up for our
lunch and we’ll eat on the way. Save time.”
Bob stepped into the bow of the boat where the sheriff had stowed away
the federal agent’s large bag and the officer jumped into the stern. The
motor was turning over smoothly. The sheriff threw in the clutch and they
moved away.
The young federal agent looked back at the sleepy village which was
strung along the bayou. The barber came out of his shop and waved at them
and the man on the wharf, from whom they had rented the boat, watched
them, his hands shielding his eyes from the glaring rays of the mid-day
sun.
Sheriff McCurdy headed the boat toward the seaway, but before they
reached it swung it sharply to the right and they chugged through a
narrow passageway that twisted and turned interminably.
“How under the sun can you find your way through all this maze of
channels?” asked Bob, understanding now why it was an ideal spot to carry
on smuggling operations.
“Been in this country all my life,” explained the sheriff, “but once in a
while I get lost. Then I usually just sit still until someone hunts me
up.”
A larger expanse of water opened ahead of them.
“Harpey’s bayou,” said the sheriff. “This is where Emil was fishing when
that black speed boat came through.”
The sheriff put the rudder bar between his legs and unwrapped a package
which had been resting on the floor boards in the bottom of the boat.
Inside were half a dozen thick sandwiches, heavily laden with butter and
with generous slices of cold ham between the bread.
They ate the sandwiches as the launch chugged through the quiet waters of
Harpey’s bayou.
The sheriff produced a jug of cold water and after a deep drink apiece,
they nosed the boat out of the bayou and into another twisting channel,
which, while deep, was heavily overgrown with trees which arched above
the water until they formed a perfect tunnel.
The air was cool and dank and Bob shuddered involuntarily as he thought
of the loneliness which would descend upon such an area when the sun went
down.
“How far is it to Lost Island?” he asked the sheriff.
“Depends on just which part we’re going to. The nearest point is about
eight miles from here.”
They went on for some distance without speaking, the sheriff devoting
practically all of his time to watching the channel.
A little more than half an hour later he shut off the engine and
skillfully guided the boat into a backwater where they would not be
visible from the main channel.
Sheriff McCurdy dropped the heavy piece of iron which served as an anchor
overboard and Bob was surprised to note that the water was at least eight
or nine feet deep.
“Better look over your guns. We may need them in a hurry,” advised the
sheriff.