Bob, crouched in the bow, saw a gray boat shoot into sight in the main channel. It was not more than 200 feet away and only one man was in the boat. With a start he recognized the crouched figure of Joe Hamsa. Then the gray speeder was gone, only a broad, spreading wake remaining to mark its passage.
The federal agent turned to the sheriff.
“We’ve got to follow him. That was Joe Hamsa.”
The sheriff shook his head.
“We’re not following him now; still too light. Besides I know he’s headed for the island. Listen to him go!”
The roar of the exhaust gradually died away and the sheriff turned to Bob.
“You’re sure that was your man?”
“Positive,” replied Bob.
Sheriff McCurdy looked at his borrowed rifle once more and Bob saw the deep lines of the peace officer’s face tighten.
They remained for another hour in the seclusion of the small bayou and before they started out again the shadows were deepening and the warmth of the afternoon was vanishing.