THE SHERIFF KNOWS A LOT
It was still raining when the _Rambler_ headed into the Mississippi,
and there was no glimmer of light in sight save that which came from
the steamer, still puffing at the mouth of the bayou, and that which
lighted the path of the motor boat. The wind had gone down, and the
slow, soft rain dominated the night.
It was evident from the very start that the steamer was no match for
the _Rambler_ when it came to a question of speed. As well might a
delivery truck attempt to compete in swiftness with a perfect touring
car.
Besides the power of speed, the _Rambler_ had another quality which
enabled her to rapidly increase the distance between the two boats.
The river was still covered with wreckage, and the motor boat was a
good dodger! She responded quickly to her helm, avoiding the driftwood
ahead easily, while the steamer was slower in picking her way.
"Your boat is a peach!" Gregg exclaimed, enthusiastically, as the
lights of the steamer dropped out of sight behind a bend in the river.
"Nothing would please me better than a long trip in her."
"Well," Clay replied, "why not? We are going to the Gulf, and are in
no hurry to get there. We are shy sleeping bunks, but if you boys can
put up with beds on the floor you are welcome to go along with us. I
reckon you'll manage to supply your share of the provisions!"
"The prospect is an attractive one," Gregg replied, "but I think we'd
better stop at Vicksburg and find employment of some kind. Later, we
may go on down the river in a houseboat of our own. That depends on
how lucky we are in getting good jobs."
"We shall be sorry to part with you," Case put in. "We have been
together only a few hours, but a great deal has happened in that time!
Only for your warning, the river thieves might have sneaked aboard the
_Rambler_ and captured it. In that case, you know very well what would
have become of us. We should have been murdered!"
"I have no doubt that you would have taken care of yourselves," Eddie
declared.
"There's one thing I want to ask you," Clay went on, "and that is
about the outlaw you buried back in the swamp. He was a white man,
wasn't he?"
"Yes; a white man blacked up like a negro."
"Did you look him over carefully enough to be able to give me a
description of him?"
"Well, we washed him up a little when we saw that he was a Caucasian,
and I got a fair impression of his face, which wasn't a prepossessing
one, by any means."
"Can you give me something of a notion of it in a few words?" asked
Clay.
"Some old acquaintance of yours?" asked the other, with a smile at
Case.
"He might have been. The fact is, I thought I recognized the voice of
the spokesman."
"There!" Alex. exclaimed. "I had that same notion. Mose," he added,
turning to the negro boy, "was that the man who threw you and the dog
into the water?"
"Ah sure done thought so!" was the reply.
"You think it was Sam, the Robber, the man who accompanied Red?" asked
Jule.
"I didn't know but it might be!" answered Clay, and Alex. at once
insisted that it was the same man. Mose was ready to swear to the
fellow's identity by this time!
"Tell us how he looked after the black was washed off," requested
Clay, after a short pause, during which the three men compared
notes--mental notes--of their impressions of the man they had left in
the lonely grave in the swamp.
"We have decided on one word that expresses our thought of the man,"
Gregg finally replied. "You know that all human beings in some manner
resemble some wild animal species. Some men are lions, some are
monkeys, some are dogs, some are bears, some are foxes. Well, this man
was a fox!"
"I thought so," Clay exclaimed. "I thought the fellow's voice sounded
like Sam's."
"There are many men with fox-faces," Gregg warned. "This man may not
have been the individual you refer to as Sam. If he is an enemy of
yours, keep looking for him."
With this bit of good advice the matter was dropped for the time. The
steamer was no longer in sight, but the _Rambler_ was kept on her way
to the Gulf.
In the middle of the next forenoon they came to Delta, which is at the
bottom of the Vicksburg cutoff, on the west bank of the river. Here,
with many handshakes and expressions of regret at parting, the three
men left the boat.
"If we have any luck at all," Gregg said, as the _Rambler_ pushed out,
"we'll meet you somewhere south of New Orleans. We've always wanted to
see that swamp country."
The boys moved slowly down the river after that.
Again they were enjoying themselves, fishing, hunting and exploring
the country on either side of the great stream.
There were lowlands, swamps, winding bayous and forests in places.
Again, there were plantations, with noble houses showing from the
river. Whenever they halted at a plantation landing they were received
most hospitably.
The wreckage of the flood was running out of the stream, and the water
was dropping down to normal. Occasionally they left the boat at night
and built rousing camp-fires on high banks. At such times plantation
hands often gathered about them with banjo and mandolin and violin and
made the night musical.
They heard no mention of the Rock Island warehouse robbery until they
approached Baton Rouge. The night before they sighted that beautiful
city they camped on a piece of high land on a small island. No sooner
was their fire blazing high than a couple of rowboats skimmed across
the river and drew up near the little camp.
There were three men in one boat and two in the other, and the whole
five hastened to greet the boys. They were evidently planters, for
they were well dressed and gave the impression of being gentlemen.
The man who seemed to be the leader looked keenly around the camp,
peered into the cabin of the _Rambler_, and then approached Clay with
outstretched hand.
"I don't need to ask who you boys are," he laughed. "I am a regular
reader of the Chicago newspapers. One of them, not long ago, printed
your pictures, including those of the dog and the cub! If you'll
desert this camp and come over to the house, I'll be glad to put you
up for the night."
"I hardly think we would sleep well under a roof," Clay laughed, "but
we're all very thankful for your kindness. Besides, we'll have to
remain here and watch the boat. We've had some trouble coming down,
and are determined to be on our guard."
"You won't find any river thieves around here," smiled the visitor.
"I'm sheriff of this parish, and I've taken considerable trouble to
clear the country of them. You say you've had trouble on the way down?
Then this must be the party that gave the officers such a race up
above Vicksburg?"
"There was a steamer chased us--for a little while!" grinned Clay.
"Yes, I understand," replied the sheriff. "The newspapers were full of
the incident the next day, and you were held forth to the public as
the boldest of river brigands! Why did you run away from the
officers?"
"We only suspected that they were officers," was the answer.
"It wouldn't have taken long for you to have found out," smiled the
officer.
"It might have taken us a long time to get away from them," Clay
answered. "You know how eager some officers are to make a capture.
Well, we didn't want to be bothered with them, so we just took to our
heels."
"The officers were looking for a boy believed to be on your boat," the
sheriff remarked. "They had information that he had been seen with you
on two occasions."
"He must refer to Chet Vinton," Case interrupted.
"I don't know his name," the sheriff went on, "but he is the boy
believed to have taken a hand in the Rock Island robbery."
"That is the lad," Clay answered, with an amused smile. "We have had
him on board the _Rambler_ on two occasions, and each time he has
mysteriously disappeared."
"Where did you see him last?"
"At Memphis."
"That was after you rented a deposit box at a bank?"
"You seem to know all about it," grinned Clay. "Yes, he left soon
after I rented the deposit box in the bank. By the way, do you know a
giant of a man, red-headed and kind-hearted, who is a gentleman of
leisure one moment and a river pirate the next?"
Clay thought he saw suppressed excitement in the face of the sheriff
as he asked the question, and waited expectantly for an answer. The
officer hesitated before saying a word, then he pushed the direct
question aside.
"There are a good many men along the river who might answer to the
description," he said, "but I can't call any names to mind just now.
What about him?"
"Why, I met him on the river," Clay answered, resolved to be just as
secretive as the officer, "and I also met a man I took to be him at
Memphis. I have a notion that I would like to meet him again some
time. He's all right, that man!"
"Tell me this," said the sheriff, then, "what did you boys discover in
the old house on the bank of the lagoon? I understand that at least
two of your party spent the day there. I'd like to know what they saw
and heard in the house."
Clay regarded the sheriff suspiciously.
"Has there anything happened to us on this trip that you don't know
about?" he asked, then.
"Why," replied the other, "we've been hearing about you all down the
river. Don't forget that we have telegraph wires in this country, as
well as up north. Yes, we've heard a lot about you, and, to tell the
truth, I've been waiting rather anxiously for you to make your
appearance. What about the old mansion, where the negro boy and the
dog got your friends out of a bad mess?"
"Say," Alex., who had been listening, cut in, "what do you know about
that old mansion? What kind of a gang is it that holds forth there?"
"You ought to know!" smiled the sheriff. "You called on them."
"Yes, and they insisted on our making a longer visit!" grinned Alex.
"Now, what is it about the boy?" the sheriff said, changing the
subject.
"You know all that I know about him," replied Clay. "He ran away from
us following the visit to the boat of the bank cashier and two
friends."
"Yes, I heard about that," said the officer. "Now, will you be good
enough to tell me if you have seen him since that night?"
"We have not, except that he returned to the _Rambler_ during the dark
hours and restored something he had taken away from her."
"Are you sure it was the boy who came back with the leather bag?"
asked the sheriff, with a most exasperating laugh. "Are you sure it
was the boy?"
"I am not," Clay answered, wonderingly. "I spoke too hastily. Come,
Mr. Sheriff, tell me how you know anything about that leather bag."
"I don't know much about it, that's the trouble," was the reply. "I
wish I knew more. Now, tell me this: Have you an appointment with this
boy farther down the river? Do you expect to meet him again during
your trip?"
Clay replied that he hoped to, and the sheriff said little more on the
subject. He expected the sheriff to ask for the key to the deposit
box, but he did not.