“If we only had the canoe here!” Bob regretted. “Well, we’ll know how to find the place again.”
“If we ever come back.”
“Oh, I’m coming back,” declared Bob with determination. “I’m going to have those bees, in spite of all the river pirates.”
The swamps were too dense to think of exploring the bayou to its mouth, and it would not have been worth while, for there was no doubt that it must flow into the main channel of the Alabama. After fixing the landmarks in their memory, they went back, picked up their supplies, and started for the canoe again, to continue the hunt, with a much more definite idea now in what direction to steer.
Going down from the ridges they found the night fog still lying thickly, and their back trail was not so easy to pick out through the dense, wet undergrowth. They lost it; they found it again in soft ground, but they had to retrace their steps many times, and it must have been a full hour before they found their last nights’ footprints sunk deep in the sloughs of the lower ground, and came to the spot where they had left the canoe. Sam, who was leading as tracker, stopped with a cry of dismay.
“De canoe’s gone!”
“What?” Joe exclaimed. “Impossible! This can’t be the right place.”
“Yes-suh, dis de right place, shore ’nough. Here our tracks. See, yander’s de big log where de moccasin slided out. Dere’s de place where you sunk in.”
“Yes, here’s where we left it,” said Bob. “But look here, Joe! What are these tracks? None of us made these!”
“Dat’s shorely so. Somebody’s done come an’ stole our boat!” Sam exclaimed.