Chapter XXIX

MORE CLUES
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The sheriff turned this over in his mind for some time as the train rumbled along the rough right-of-way. Then he nodded and agreed with Bob.

“Looks like you’re right. That means we may be in for a busy time when the actual contact is attempted.”

“We’ll be busy enough, if we can learn where the contact will be made,” retorted the young federal agent.

“What about your uncle?” asked the sheriff.

The exultation which had marked Bob’s features vanished.

“I don’t honestly know. From the reputation of this gang I should fear the worst, but for some reason I have unbounded faith in my uncle’s ability to take care of himself in a crisis. The last we knew was that he disappeared from the waterfront and shortly after that a motorboat sped down the river.”

“Then if a big smuggling operation is under way, it’s just possible that he might be brought down here,” argued the sheriff.

“He might be taken to their hideout,” agreed Bob, “but so far our men have no real clue to that.”

“We may be able to pick up something at Atalissa,” said the sheriff. “I’ve a number of friends there who may be able to give me information you never could get.”

As the accommodation jogged toward the coast, the country became wilder and they rumbled across narrow bridges that spanned bayous and salt streams. Undergrowth was thick and almost jungle-like. They were in one of the wildest sections of the Florida coast—uninviting, inhospitable, and for years the hideout for lawbreakers of various kinds.

The brakes went on sharply and the little train swung around a curve as the wheels shrieked a protest. Looking ahead, Bob could see a huddle of houses around a large bayou. Beyond that was a narrow opening and further out a glimpse of the blue Atlantic. This, then, must be Atalissa, his present destination.

The sheriff stood up, and looked at his watch.

“Lucky trip this morning,” he declared. “Usually the local has a couple of derailments.”

The train pulled up before a dilapidated station and Bob and the sheriff stepped down on a rough plank platform. The only others visible were the train crew and the station agent.

“Town looks quiet,” said the sheriff as they started down the one street which was flanked on one side by the clear waters of the bayou and on the other by a long line of buildings, some of them stores and the others places of residence.

The first building, a story and a half structure, was a barber shop and the sheriff turned in here.

“Morning, sheriff,” said the barber.

“Morning, Emil,” replied the sheriff. “Want you to meet a friend of mine, Bob Houston. Northerner. He’s down for a few days loafing and maybe a little fishing. Know anything new?”

The barber, inclined to stoutness and baldness, shook his head.

“Not even any good fishing left,” he sighed.

“Everybody behavin’?” asked the sheriff.

“Just what are you driving at?” the barber asked.

“Nothing special; just thought you might have heard of something,” grinned the sheriff.

“Matter of fact, I have,” retorted the barber. “Somebody’s been flying around here the last couple of nights with a plane of some kind.”

“That ain’t so unusual, is it?” asked the sheriff. “We’ve been used to all kinds of things along this coast.”

“Well, that wasn’t so strange, but this morning when I was fishing down in Harpey’s bayou a boat came through there so fast it was nothing but a black streak and a flash of spray. Blamed thing must have been doing forty an hour.”

Bob’s eyes glinted.

“Where did it go?”

“Now I was only in a rowboat and I wouldn’t know where a speed boat went,” replied the barber. Then, seeing the chagrin on Bob’s face, he added, “I’d almost be willing to bet that it was heading for Lost Island.”

Bob saw a queer expression flit across the sheriff’s face.

“I might have known that’s where such a boat would be going,” he groaned. “Why couldn’t it be toward some other island?”

“I wouldn’t know,” grinned the barber, who sensed that the sheriff was in Atalissa on some important mission. Bob saw the barber scanning his coat and he wondered if the gun in the shoulder holster was visible. If it was, it would reveal instantly that he was an officer, and not the vacationer that the sheriff had pictured him to be.

“Guess we’ll be getting a boat and heading south,” said the sheriff. “Just don’t say anything to anyone else on what you saw this morning.”

“Not a word, sheriff,” said the barber, and they left the small shop.

“Queer fellow,” nodded the sheriff as they proceeded down the street toward a wharf. “He knows everything that’s going on and he protects a lot of people, but when some outsiders come in and start breaking the law, I can always figure he’ll tell me the truth.”

“What do you make of it?” asked Bob.

“I’d say that the more men you can get in here, the better it will be. Emil knows something queer is going on at Lost Island and it was just his way of telling me to get there in a hurry. But I don’t like that place. It’s too lonesome and it’s so big a man can get lost on it for days.”

“I didn’t know there were any islands that large along here,” replied Bob.

“It isn’t actually an island,” explained the sheriff, “but there’s water on three sides of it and it’s swampy and about as dismal as the last place on earth. Always been a favorite hiding place for men trying to get away from the law.”