The sheriff, probing his own roll of duffel, unearthed a serviceable looking gun.
“Borrowed this from the barber,” he grinned. “It isn’t quite as fancy a gun as yours but it will carry well and I’ve used it once or twice before, so I’m used to handling it.”
The sheriff drew out his pipe and lighted it, settling back against the gunwale.
“Aren’t we going on?” asked Bob.
“Not much use right now,” replied the officer. “We’d be spotted in a minute. We’ll wait until dusk. Then we can cruise along the island. They’ll be sure to have a fire of some kind for the nights are getting chilly.”
Bob knew that the sheriff was right, but the thought of inactivity while his uncle was in the hands of gangsters galled his active spirit. However, he made the best of it and tried to doze.
An hour slipped away when the exhaust of a motorboat, evidently coming at high speed, echoed through the lowlands.
The sheriff sat up quickly, glanced at his rifle, and then picked up an oar and paddled their boat closer toward a thicket so that they were well hidden from the channel which passed within a short distance of the bayou where they had sought temporary refuge.
The noise of the oncoming boat was clearer.
“Coming fast,” grunted the sheriff, balancing his rifle in his hands.