“We may be able to pick up something at Atalissa,” said the sheriff. “I’ve a number of friends there who may be able to give me information you never could get.”
As the accommodation jogged toward the coast, the country became wilder and they rumbled across narrow bridges that spanned bayous and salt streams. Undergrowth was thick and almost jungle-like. They were in one of the wildest sections of the Florida coast—uninviting, inhospitable, and for years the hideout for lawbreakers of various kinds.
The brakes went on sharply and the little train swung around a curve as the wheels shrieked a protest. Looking ahead, Bob could see a huddle of houses around a large bayou. Beyond that was a narrow opening and further out a glimpse of the blue Atlantic. This, then, must be Atalissa, his present destination.
The sheriff stood up, and looked at his watch.
“Lucky trip this morning,” he declared. “Usually the local has a couple of derailments.”
The train pulled up before a dilapidated station and Bob and the sheriff stepped down on a rough plank platform. The only others visible were the train crew and the station agent.
“Town looks quiet,” said the sheriff as they started down the one street which was flanked on one side by the clear waters of the bayou and on the other by a long line of buildings, some of them stores and the others places of residence.
The first building, a story and a half structure, was a barber shop and the sheriff turned in here.
“Morning, sheriff,” said the barber.
“Morning, Emil,” replied the sheriff. “Want you to meet a friend of mine, Bob Houston. Northerner. He’s down for a few days loafing and maybe a little fishing. Know anything new?”