Chapter XXX

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.