“I saw the motor boat. Hanna’s there,” said Lockwood. “We’ve got them—but how are we going to get at them?”
Their boat had been drifting slightly, and was now a good hundred and fifty yards from the point where they had been fired at. Tom headed slowly out into the channel to reconnoiter. Instantly a high-velocity bullet sang overhead, another zipped into the water just astern, and the boat hastily backed into the cover of the shore again. Most of the shooting had been from revolvers, but there was evidently at least one rifle aboard Blue Bob’s craft.
“If we try to rush ’em they’ll put us outer business before we kin git near ’em,” said Power anxiously. “We ain’t got but four men fit to shoot now, and they’ve mebbe got five.”
“Couldn’t we get around behind them—take them from the land side?” Lockwood suggested.
Beside them the swamp was too tangled and boggy to land. Tom let the boat drift down for fifty yards, crossed the channel with a rush, drawing another shot from above, and sped around a curve out of range. After a dozen twists the bayou wound back to the Alabama again. They coasted up the low shore, a wall of shrubbery and creepers, and Tom ran in beside a fallen tree.
“They must be just about opposite yere,” he said.
Lockwood was nearest the log, and stepped upon it, forcing his way in through the thicket. At the end of the log he jumped upon a partly dry spot of ground. Beyond lay a welter of wooded bog. The house boat might lie on the bayou across this jungle, but nothing could be seen of it.
Tom had edged his way in after Lockwood.
“Can’t git through here—no use tryin’,” he said, after an expert glance. “Liable ter go clean outer sight in the mud.”
“Couldn’t we set fire to it, and burn them out?” Lockwood was inspired to suggest. “The wind’s blowing the right way.”