“This is one of the highest parts,” he explained, “and one of the driest. Not much swamp right here and the footing should be good. On the other side there’s an old pier and a sort of hunting house that was built years ago by some northerners. I expect we’ll find the men we want over there.”
Bob was too impatient to rest very long, and at his insistence, they took up the oars again and turned the bow of their boat toward shore.
Moving like a shadow and with as little noise, they guided their craft in toward the island. The bow stuck in soft mud three or four feet from the shore and the sheriff grunted his distaste.
“We’ll have to wade in,” he complained. “I’ll get wet and that will make my rheumatism bad again.”
Bob dropped their anchor over into the mud and the sheriff stuck two of the spark plugs from the motor in his pocket, effectively disabling the boat from use.
With Bob in the lead, they dropped over the side. The muck and ooze was cold and slimy and Bob felt his legs plowing in about six inches of the clammy stuff. Fortunately they were ashore in about four long strides.
They paused long enough to loosen the guns in their shoulder holsters and to look at the safeties on their rifles. Then, with the sheriff in the lead, they started for the far side of the narrow island.
There was plenty of underbrush, but the ground was firm, and by treading cautiously, they made progress without making much noise.
From a little knoll which they ascended they could look down on the other side of the island and the light which Bob had seen from a distance was plainly visible.
It was a torch of some kind and was apparently mounted on a rather tall pole, for the flame flickered in the light breeze which was sweeping in from the open sea.