“Suppose we paddle slowly up the bayou,” Scott suggested, “and keep our eyes open. They have been undisturbed so long that I doubt if they keep any kind of guard and we ought to be able to see them before they see us.”
That plan suited Murphy perfectly. He laid his automatic on the bow of the bateau where it would be handy and paddled ahead. They went very slowly, sneaking cautiously up to every bend and stopping frequently to listen. They had covered at least a mile in this way without seeing any signs which looked suspicious or anything to indicate that they were getting any closer to their destination. Not a sound broke the afternoon stillness of the forest.
“Must be selling those logs in Mobile,” Murphy grumbled.
As they poked the bow of the bateau slowly around the next bend there was a tremendous splashing in the water ahead. Murphy snatched up his pistol and Scott whisked the bateau back under the protection of the bank with all his strength. They both looked rather foolish when a bunch of ducks rose noisily honking and finally made it out over the treetops some distance ahead of them.
“They were pretty nearly as badly scared as we were, anyway,” Murphy growled as he resumed his paddle.
Scott estimated that they had come at least four miles from the river and still there was no sign of logs or life. “Think we’ll have provisions enough to last us on this trip?” he asked.
The canal had cleared the river swamp now and lay in a narrow strip of baygall between ridges of pine forest which had been neither logged nor turpentined. They still talked with hushed voices though they were apparently miles from anywhere.
“I wonder if this neck connects with the big swamp over west?” Murphy said. “I have heard about that swamp but have never been there. They say it is a whale of a big one and runs down within a very few miles of the coast.”
“Shouldn’t wonder,” Scott growled as they paddled slowly along. “Seems as though it might connect with the Pacific Coast. Pity Columbus didn’t find it.”
It was getting late in the afternoon when they paused at a bend in the bayou to listen for the hundredth time. They straightened up suddenly and looked inquiringly at each other. The faint but unmistakable whine of a sawmill sounded plaintively from somewhere far ahead of them. The light of triumph was in their eyes now, but they were too excited to talk. Without a word they both bent to their work and paddled eagerly forward. The country on either side was more open now, and there was less chance of their running into any one unexpectedly. Every time they stopped to listen the whine of the saw was more distinct. It seemed too good to be true and they had to listen often to assure themselves that they were not dreaming.