Nothing disturbed them during the night, and they slept late, making up for their lately broken rests. The sun was well up when they awoke, and the night fog was thinning on the river. They were chilly and wet with dew as they tramped stiffly down to the shore, found their boat, and started to row down to the raft. There was still a drifting haze on the water. It was impossible to see clearly to the opposite bank, but the long point at the river bend, the rick of dead driftwood, was plain enough. But—
They let the boat drift, staring incredulously.
“Oh, Joe!” cried Bob in a heart-broken voice.
The tangle of drift had been pried and cut apart. The raft was no longer there.
CHAPTER XVII
WAR ON THE RIVER
“It can’t possibly be gone!” exclaimed Joe, desperately. “How could it have got loose?”
Bob pointed to the dead timber, which showed the fresh marks of ax and saw.
“It’s been cut in the night,” he said bitterly. “We were fools to leave it here. And if we hadn’t slept so heavily we’d have heard the noise of chopping. Of course it’s the river-men who did this.”
“Yes,” Joe admitted, “and I surely thought we’d thrown them off the trail. But they must have been following us down all the time, likely waiting back around the last river bend all last evening. Oh, it’s Blue Bob’s work, all right. Who else’d have been out on the river in the dark and fog? And nobody else in Alabama would have run off with that raft of bees. He’s trying to get back at us for the rosin. But we’ll get him yet.”
“The raft’s gone down stream, Joe,” said Bob, after a silence. “No power in Alabama could have hauled it a foot the other way, and it’s too big to hide. Those fellows can’t be very many miles down the river with it.”