“Hello, there!” called a voice through the darkness, after a time. “Who goes there?”
The splash of a sweep had attracted the attention of someone on shore. The light of a camp fire showed.
Every one in the boat looked at the leader, but none vouchsafed a reply to the hail.
“Ahoy there, the boat!” insisted the same voice.
“Shall I fire on yez to make yez answer a civil question? Come ashore wance—I can lick the best of yez in three minutes, or me name’s not Patrick Gass!”
The captain of the boat turned slowly in his seat, casting a glance over his silent crew.
“Set in!” said he, sharply and shortly.
Without a word they obeyed, and with oar and steering-sweep the great craft slowly swung inshore.
Lewis stepped from the boat, and, not waiting to see whether he was followed—as he was by all of his men—strode on up the bank into the circle of light made by the camp fire. About the fire lay a dozen or more men of the hardest of the river type, which was saying quite enough; for of all the lawless and desperate characters of the frontier, none have ever surpassed in reckless audacity and truculence the men of the old boat trade of the Ohio and the Mississippi.
These fellows lay idly looking at Lewis as he entered the light, not troubling to accost him.