Usually a faint, blue wreath of smoke curled up from it, but now there was none. It was the hour for the matin meal, too.
Could they have left the island entirely—have disorganized and deserted the old rendezvous? That would account for the presence of the canoe on this side. If so, then his reward was gone, and his easy, vagabond life also, for he should have to hunt, fish and work for the settlers.
This idea was so distasteful to him that he grinned in vexation, and he resolved to “blow the hull t’ing” should it cost him his neck, for he knew the men would be enraged at his part in the abduction. And he had nearly done so when the words of a former speech of Downing’s came to his obtuse memory, “Think twice before you shoot once, and then don’t go off at half-cock.”
Cato the Creeper was a prodigy at pursuing a trail, but he was no thinker, and quite too apt to follow every impulse. So, you see, this little bit of memory was something wonderful. He profited by it.
Noticing a fish-hawk warily wheeling above the slimy black pond, he stepped out prominently upon the log where the trail ended, and gave a shrill cry, an exact imitation of that of the hawk. The bird did not notice it; such birds never do, and Cato, far wiser than sage men of nature, knew it.
But in a few moments another cry, an answer, came from the enchanted, dark-bordered island, low, long, and mournful. Then Cato knew they were still there, that his party was under sharp inspection at that moment, and that something was wrong.
It was well he kept his sable face immovable, for Sol, watching him, heard the answer and saw no corresponding fish-hawk, except that above the lake. However, he might be perched upon some tree on the island. But the sagacious old veteran kept his peace, his counsel, and his eye—on the negro.
“Ef I ain’t fooled, that thar island air what is called Shadder Swamp Island, aint it, Cato?” asked a young man.
“Dat’s de island,” tersely answered Cato.
“What’s this ’ere boat, Cato?” inquired the chief, eying him keenly.