The man shook his head as he quickly reloaded his weapon, and there was a grumbling murmur in the negative.
The rustling, washing sound of the water beneath the boat as the men urged it along with all their might, everyone giving a thrust with his oar whenever he could reach a tree, was now the only thing that disturbed the silence.
But the opening out of the creek into the river seemed as far off as ever, and Brace’s agony increased as he kept watching for the bright sunshine flashing from the water, but only to turn his eyes back to where his brother lay with his face looking very hard and drawn.
“Can’t get a glimpse of anyone,” said Briscoe; “and I don’t think it’s of any use to fire to scare ’em. Whoever fired that last shot must be on the land, for there’s no sign of a boat. Does anyone of you hear paddling?”
“No, no. We can’t hear anything moving,” came in chorus.
Then Brace spoke out excitedly: “Surely we ought to be back in the river by this time! Have we missed our way?”
“Well, I don’t like to say we have,” replied the American; “but it does seem a very long time before we get out of this watery swamp. Hold hard a minute, my lads, and try and make out how the stream runs.”
The men ceased thrusting at the tree-trunks as soon as Briscoe had given the word, and by slow degrees the boat came to a stand, and then began to float back in the opposite direction to that in which they had been forcing it.
“Why, we’re going wrong,” cried one of the men excitedly, springing up.
“Well, never you mind,” said the American sharply. “Just you sit down and wait for orders. We’ll tell you which way to go.”