"Sho--I bet it's him! Sho'--it's Uncle Bob's nevvy! Sho', you
can hear 'em! Sho', they're shootin' guns! Sho'!"
Carrington cast a hurried glance in the direction of these
sounds. There between the boat and the shore the dim outline of
a raft was taking shape. It was now canopied by a wealth of pale
gray smoke that faded from before his eyes as the darkness
lifted. Turning, he saw Slosson and his men clearly. Surprise
and consternation was depicted on each face.
The light increased. From the flat stone hearth of the raft
ascended a tall column of flame which rendered visible six pygmy
figures, tow-headed and wonderfully vocal, who were toiling like
mad at the huge sweeps. The light showed more than this. It
showed a lady of plump and pleasing presence smoking a cobpipe
while she fed the fire from a tick stuffed with straw. It showed
two bark shanties, a line between them decorated with the
never-ending Cavendish wash. It showed a rooster perched on the
ridge-pole of one of these shanties in the very act of crowing
lustily.
Hannibal, who had climbed to the roof of the cabin, shrieked for
help, and Betty added her voice to his.
"All right, Nevvy!" came the cheerful reply, as Yancy threw
himself over the side of the boat and grappled with Slosson.
"Uncle Bob! Uncle Bob!" cried Hannibal.
Slosson uttered a cry of terror. He had a simple but sincere
faith in the supernatural, and even with the Scratch Hiller's big
hands gripping his throat, he could not rid himself of the belief
that this was the ghost of a murdered man.
Pages:
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395