Sheriff McCurdy started the motor of their boat and Bob pulled up the mud-covered anchor. With the motor throttle well down they started for Lost Island and Bob was thankful that their boat had an underwater exhaust which it was almost impossible to hear.
After leaving the shelter of the bayou, Sheriff McCurdy operated their boat with extreme caution and just before they came within sight of Lost Island he stopped the boat and spoke to Bob.
“We may be poking our heads into a hornet’s nest,” he warned. “Want to go on or wait until additional federal men can get to Atalissa and we can bring them down here?”
“That might be too late,” decided Bob. “We’ll go on.”
The sheriff started the motor and once more they were in forward motion, the bow of their small boat knifing its way through the waters of a larger lagoon.
Chapter XXXII
LOST ISLAND AHEAD
★
Ahead of them lay a long, low mass of tangled undergrowth.
“Lost Island,” said the sheriff cryptically and Bob felt his blood beating faster. It was toward this spot that the black speed boat sighted by the barber had been going and it was also toward this spot that Joe Hamsa had been hurrying in the gray motorboat.
The motor of their own boat died suddenly and Bob looked toward the sheriff, whose face was still dimly discernible in the faint light.
“No more noise; we’ll use oars from now on.”