“I’ll be powerfully glad when this honey gets away on the boat!” said Bob, wiping his brow. “There’s another fifty dollars gone out of our assets.”
“I’ll be powerfully glad when we get this whole outfit away from here,” responded Joe. “Those pirates are getting impatient to have us go.”
They felt uneasy about exposing themselves during the rest of the afternoon. Carl took Bob’s rifle and ensconced himself at a good viewpoint, to give a return shot if another came. But all remained quiet until just at dusk, when the distant marksman tried his hand again. He fired six shots, and pieces of wood and spurts of earth flew all around the honey-barrels, but the log rampart kept them from being perforated. The shooter was so well ambushed that it was only at the last shot that Carl detected the flash, coming from a dump of small pines three hundred yards away across the bayou. He retaliated with one shot at the place but got no reply, and Bob dissuaded him from further shooting. A battle was the last thing they wanted just then.
They spent a nervous night, taking turns to stand guard, but the sniper gave no more trouble. The next day the steamboat came down, considerably earlier than they had expected her, and the boys rolled the honey-barrels down the hill, into the flatboat, and poled out to the river. They came back after shipping the honey, reporting that the boat would be back in four days and had promised to leave an empty barge for the loading of the bees.
“Now if those pirates just let us alone for another week we’ll be all right,” said Bob. “The honey’s safely off, anyway. So much to the good.”
The boat had also brought them a roll of wire screen, and they began to cut this into strips to be nailed over the hive-entrances for shipping. There was little that could be done with the bees now; Alice ventured to proceed a little with re-queening operations, but for the most part they could only wait for the return of the steamer. A heavy rain fell, breaking off the honey flow, and it was followed by chilly north winds. With no honey to gather, the bees were intensely cross, stinging viciously and trying to rob one another’s hives.
A few days of peace had lulled their fears somewhat, but the next night Joe was awakened out of a sound slumber by a shriek in his ears. A red glare struck his eyes as he opened them.
“Fire!” Carl was yelling. “It’s the bee-yard!”
Everybody was rushing out, half-dazed and in an uproar of confusion. A sheet of flame seemed to be driving right over the apiary, fanned by a fresh breeze. A second glance showed them that the conflagration was in the huge pile of dry blackberry-canes and rubbish from the clearing up of the gum-yard, which they had piled back of the apiary. No hives were yet afire, but the ones nearest the flames were scorching, and the terrified bees were rushing out in thousands.
“Grab the buckets! Run to the spring, Sam!” Joe shouted, and he rushed up almost under the flames, seized the imperiled hive bodily, and carried it away. Carl rescued another, as Sam came back with water and dashed it hissing on the fire, without much effect. There were only two small buckets and the spring was too far away.