Only a second they stood there, then the captain drew a whistle from his pocket and blew three long blasts, quite shrilly; then he paused a moment, and then blew twice, softly.
As if by magic a boat or “dug-out” shot out from the island propelled by a dirty, sinister-appearing man, bewhiskered and large in proportions. With a single paddle he forced the craft through the weeds and water-lilies rapidly, paddling carelessly. This man was not armed at all, and he acted as if he had recently been asleep. He had been—for his business was trifling and light. He was the ferryman—the Charon of this River Styx.
The distance was trifling, and the dug-out soon grated against the tree. Without a word they slid down the side and stepped into the craft, and the boatman, Jack Dark, rowed or paddled away in silence. The short voyage was soon ended, and the men stepped ashore, and left the ferryman alone, all in silence.
This was the captain’s order—that from the time the signal was first given until the boat had been hidden away on the island, the utmost silence should be observed. No one dared break this rule, for once a robber disobeyed and he suddenly disappeared, the subordinates of the gang knowing not whither. The captain on being questioned, only smiled quietly and cautioned obedience. Then they knew he was of the world no more.
The island was level and had once been heavily wooded, but now the center was cleared, leaving a thick underbrush to the sides near the water. Thus the interior was level and bare, while the outer rim of tangled willows and reeds, made it impossible to discover the retreat from the mainland, even if any one should chance to climb a tree, which no one ever did except on urgent occasions.
Two cabins stood in this clearing, both equal in size, but of different colors. They were composed of roughly-hewn logs set firmly together, the interstices being filled in with moss and dried mud. Neither had but one opening—one door which served for light and ingress. They were the common log-cabins to be seen anywhere in the Western or Southern States.
One was occupied by the officers and the scout—Captain Downing, Fink, and Bob Griffith. It was called the white cabin, because it was composed of light-colored wood, with the bark taken off. The other was about fifty yards distant, and was called the brown cabin, to distinguish it from the other. This was occupied by the subordinates, where the captain’s cooking was done, as he was very fastidious and detested the smell of cookery.
The three men emerged from the clearing, when they were challenged by a sentry, who started up from behind a log. The countersign was given, the sentry slunk back, and they went on toward the brown cabin. Captain Downing was vigilant and cunning.
Several ill-looking men, armed to the teeth, were lying in the cabin door, some dozing and smoking short pipes, while others played cards and quarreled. A fierce black dog was chained to a stump close by. He was a bloodhound—the fiercest of his race.
They walked up to the cabin and the men stopped gambling for a moment to watch Downing’s lips. If he smiled, beware! evil was brewing. If he was demure he was watching every thing with the eye of a lynx.