There were indeed fresh tracks in the wet ground, tracks fresher than the ones they had made last night. They were deep marks of heavy boots, stamped deep into the mud, so confused that it was hard to say if more than one person had made them. But they had been made by none of the boys’ party, and it was certain that some one had come through the swamp, cut the canoe loose, and paddled away in it.
“We’re in a pickle now!” Bob ejaculated. “What are we going to do?”
“I dunno,” said Sam. “Course, with your guns an’ my fish-hooks we kin live on dis island long’s we like—live good too, yes-suh. Or we might mebbe swim de old channel an’ git ’cross to where somebody lives.”
“Can’t we trail that thief’s back track and see where he came from?” Joe suggested.
“Good idea!” cried Bob. “He must have come from his camp, or from the houseboat, that’s certain. Very likely he’s paddled back there. Maybe we’ll find the rosin there, too.”
“Mebbe find more’n we kin swaller,” said Sam; but they started at once to follow the trail back. The marks were plain enough, for the men—there certainly appeared more than one—had tramped recklessly through mud and water. The boys followed them through a swamp, across a creek, over a dry ridge, and then down again into a partly overflowed area, where the water stood among dead timber, tall grass, and piles of rotting logs.
As they came up a moccasin squirmed away into the mud. It looked a dangerous place in more ways than one. Joe almost flinched as he remembered his former experience with the bog, but they equipped themselves with stout sticks to feel the way or kill snakes, and waded in. The water proved scarcely knee-deep after all, and they were nearly across when Bob stepped unexpectedly into a deep hole of mud and water.
He might have gone down almost out of sight, if Sam had not clutched him by the collar and dragged him forward. Joe also seized his arm; it was hard to free his feet from the tenacious mud, but Bob at last got his arms around a cypress knee, and by pulling all at once they hauled him free.
They got across the bog without further mishap, but Bob was scared and shaken, and he had to sit down to recover himself. He was covered with mud; his rifle was mired also, and he had to take it to pieces, wipe the action dry, and fill the magazine afresh.
Then, when they were ready to go on, they found that they had lost the trail. Nowhere on that side of the bog could they find any tracks.