“Now wait here,” whispered Garry. Howells watched in amazement as Garry crept to the water’s edge and noiselessly waded in. He made no sound as he swam. When he came back, dripping wet, Howells wanted to ask a score of questions, but forebore for fear of being heard.
He was about to come closer and whisper, when a form crept up to them and a low voice said:
“So we meet again.”
It was Baptiste LeBlanc. The Frenchman then lifted his voice and called for the others. But he did not get very far. Howells struck with all his strength and his hard knuckles took the halfbreed on the point of the jaw. LeBlanc dropped like a stone.
“Come, Garry, this way quick,” called Art. There was no need of whispering now, for the men who had been unloading had heard the alarm and there was the sound of rushing feet.
“Into the canoe, Art. They can’t follow us,” said Garry.
Howells had intended a dash into the woods, where there was less likelihood of being caught, but he obeyed Garry, knowing that he had some plan in view. They pushed the canoe into the water, springing into it as they did. It was lucky that Howells was an experienced canoeist, else the frail boat would have been overturned. As it was, they got a good start, and in a moment were bending to their paddles with all their might and strength.
“What’s to stop them following us in the motor boat? We should have taken to the woods,” remonstrated Art.
“Faster, I’ll tell you later,” answered Garry breathlessly. At that minute they heard loud imprecations from the shore.
By this time they were well away from shore and out of danger of a possible shot.