But there was nobody on the shore. The mound of ashes was there in the circle of stones, but the big kettle was gone. The scraps of burlap strainers seemed to have been burned; the empty barrels were gone. Nothing was left but the scattered lumps of rosin on the ground. The houseboat men had evidently been trying to clean up all traces of their operations.
It was a great relief to find that the pirates had definitely abandoned the place. Getting aboard again, the boys pushed a little way further up the bayou, which seemed to extend clear through the River Island and out to the old channel; but the tangled, half-flooded shores were so melancholy that they presently dropped down the current again to the bee-yard. Here they moored the boat, and started to explore the lower part of the bayou on foot.
The ground was higher here, and the walking dry and good, though obstructed with blackberry, gallberry, and oak-scrub. They went down to the mouth of the bayou, then turned inland and came in a circle back toward the cabin.
The marshes and the strips of creek-swamp compelled them to take a most crooked course, and at last, tangled in the maze of morasses, they had to turn back to the river again for a fresh start. It was clear that they would have to keep to the ridges in future, and they were skirting along the shore, watching for a possible road inland when Bob suddenly stopped short, grasping Carl’s arm.
Twenty yards in front a rough rowboat lay on the river bank. A man was stooping over it, either having just landed or preparing to embark. He carried a gun in his left hand, and he had neither seen nor heard the boys.
“One of the pirate bunch?” whispered Carl.
“No, I never saw him,” Bob murmured, after getting a good look at the boatman. “Likely he’s only hunting here. There’s only one of him anyway. Let’s go up and see what he says.”
They walked boldly out of the undergrowth and approached the man, who turned about sharply as he heard them, straightened up, and watched their approach in silence. He was middle-aged, bearded, and long-haired; he looked a typical backwoodsman. His clothing was faded to an indeterminate brown; he wore canvas leggings, and a canvas belt of shells about his waist, and he held his double-barrel across his arm.
“Howdy!” called Bob, trying to adopt the local greeting. “Hunting?”
The man looked them over with an appearance of intense surprise and curiosity. Probably Bob’s Northern accent struck him as peculiar.