A BOAT FLASHES PAST
★
Bob got out his Gladstone bag and opened it, removing the case which held
his rifle.
He assembled the gun and filled the magazine with shells. Placing it
against his shoulder, he aimed at a spot some distance away when a sharp
call from the sheriff stopped the steady pressure of his finger on the
trigger.
“Don’t take any chances with a shot now giving an alarm to anyone,” he
warned. “Remember that the men who hide out down here are all wary of any
gunshots.”
Bob lowered the gun and he knew that his cheeks were burning for, had he
thought of the possible result, he would not have attempted a practice
shot or two.
The sheriff, probing his own roll of duffel, unearthed a serviceable
looking gun.
“Borrowed this from the barber,” he grinned. “It isn’t quite as fancy a
gun as yours but it will carry well and I’ve used it once or twice
before, so I’m used to handling it.”
The sheriff drew out his pipe and lighted it, settling back against the
gunwale.
“Aren’t we going on?” asked Bob.
“Not much use right now,” replied the officer. “We’d be spotted in a
minute. We’ll wait until dusk. Then we can cruise along the island.
They’ll be sure to have a fire of some kind for the nights are getting
chilly.”
Bob knew that the sheriff was right, but the thought of inactivity while
his uncle was in the hands of gangsters galled his active spirit.
However, he made the best of it and tried to doze.
An hour slipped away when the exhaust of a motorboat, evidently coming at
high speed, echoed through the lowlands.
The sheriff sat up quickly, glanced at his rifle, and then picked up an
oar and paddled their boat closer toward a thicket so that they were well
hidden from the channel which passed within a short distance of the bayou
where they had sought temporary refuge.
The noise of the oncoming boat was clearer.
“Coming fast,” grunted the sheriff, balancing his rifle in his hands.
Bob, crouched in the bow, saw a gray boat shoot into sight in the main
channel. It was not more than 200 feet away and only one man was in the
boat. With a start he recognized the crouched figure of Joe Hamsa. Then
the gray speeder was gone, only a broad, spreading wake remaining to mark
its passage.
The federal agent turned to the sheriff.
“We’ve got to follow him. That was Joe Hamsa.”
The sheriff shook his head.
“We’re not following him now; still too light. Besides I know he’s headed
for the island. Listen to him go!”
The roar of the exhaust gradually died away and the sheriff turned to
Bob.
“You’re sure that was your man?”
“Positive,” replied Bob.
Sheriff McCurdy looked at his borrowed rifle once more and Bob saw the
deep lines of the peace officer’s face tighten.
They remained for another hour in the seclusion of the small bayou and
before they started out again the shadows were deepening and the warmth
of the afternoon was vanishing.
Sheriff McCurdy started the motor of their boat and Bob pulled up the
mud-covered anchor. With the motor throttle well down they started for
Lost Island and Bob was thankful that their boat had an underwater
exhaust which it was almost impossible to hear.
After leaving the shelter of the bayou, Sheriff McCurdy operated their
boat with extreme caution and just before they came within sight of Lost
Island he stopped the boat and spoke to Bob.
“We may be poking our heads into a hornet’s nest,” he warned. “Want to go
on or wait until additional federal men can get to Atalissa and we can
bring them down here?”
“That might be too late,” decided Bob. “We’ll go on.”
The sheriff started the motor and once more they were in forward motion,
the bow of their small boat knifing its way through the waters of a
larger lagoon.