Chapter XXXII

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.