LOST ISLAND AHEAD
★
Ahead of them lay a long, low mass of tangled undergrowth.
“Lost Island,” said the sheriff cryptically and Bob felt his blood
beating faster. It was toward this spot that the black speed boat sighted
by the barber had been going and it was also toward this spot that Joe
Hamsa had been hurrying in the gray motorboat.
The motor of their own boat died suddenly and Bob looked toward the
sheriff, whose face was still dimly discernible in the faint light.
“No more noise; we’ll use oars from now on.”
Bob helped put the oars in their sockets. There were two pairs and they
bent their backs to the task of rowing.
“This may be an all night job,” grunted the sheriff, “but it will be
worth it if I can catch up with the fellow who threw me out of the car
last night.”
The boat, although not large, was heavy and in less than half an hour Bob
had blisters on both hands and his back ached mightily.
“Ease up a bit,” advised the sheriff. “We’ll drift along here and rest.”
Bob welcomed the chance to straighten up and he let the oars rest in the
oarlocks while he stood up in the boat.
A flicker of light to the left caught his eye and he spoke quietly to the
sheriff.
“There’s a light to your left,” he said. “Stand up and look at it.”
Sheriff McCurdy stood up in the stern.
“I expected something like this,” he grunted. “Might as well rest a bit,
though, for I’ve too many kinks in my back now to think of a good scrap.”
The boat drifted gently and the sheriff told what he knew about the
island.
“This is one of the highest parts,” he explained, “and one of the driest.
Not much swamp right here and the footing should be good. On the other
side there’s an old pier and a sort of hunting house that was built years
ago by some northerners. I expect we’ll find the men we want over there.”
Bob was too impatient to rest very long, and at his insistence, they took
up the oars again and turned the bow of their boat toward shore.
Moving like a shadow and with as little noise, they guided their craft in
toward the island. The bow stuck in soft mud three or four feet from the
shore and the sheriff grunted his distaste.
“We’ll have to wade in,” he complained. “I’ll get wet and that will make
my rheumatism bad again.”
Bob dropped their anchor over into the mud and the sheriff stuck two of
the spark plugs from the motor in his pocket, effectively disabling the
boat from use.
With Bob in the lead, they dropped over the side. The muck and ooze was
cold and slimy and Bob felt his legs plowing in about six inches of the
clammy stuff. Fortunately they were ashore in about four long strides.
They paused long enough to loosen the guns in their shoulder holsters and
to look at the safeties on their rifles. Then, with the sheriff in the
lead, they started for the far side of the narrow island.
There was plenty of underbrush, but the ground was firm, and by treading
cautiously, they made progress without making much noise.
From a little knoll which they ascended they could look down on the other
side of the island and the light which Bob had seen from a distance was
plainly visible.
It was a torch of some kind and was apparently mounted on a rather tall
pole, for the flame flickered in the light breeze which was sweeping in
from the open sea.
Moving even more cautiously than before, Bob and the sheriff started down
for the camp which they knew must be in the blackness beyond the light.