"None too many cartridges left; we didn't figure on a little war," he commented, and turned his attention to the shore.
A breath of relief escaped him. The shore was a scant quarter-mile away, and the wind would get them to it. Hi John had made the promontory, a low, mangrove-rimmed tongue of land, and was heading toward the river-mouth which had disclosed itself beyond. The stream was one of some size, thickly girt by trees and jungle.
A single line of surf, breaking across the bar, was divided by a small, narrow island of white sand, where a few trees struggled. With extra high tides the island would be covered, Barnes decided, but not at present.
"Right-hand channel, John," he directed. "Then beach her on that island. If we don't get that boat stopped, she'll do for us; but we can stop her. Ellen waked up yet?"
"Not yet," said Nora Sayers.
"Then leave her alone. The next ten minutes tells the tale. Give me that gun of hers."
The girl obeyed. A shrill cry from Hi John heralded the surf-line, and as the boat rose to it, the sail began to flap. The wind was down.
VII
Sunset was at hand. The red ball of the sun, blurred out of rotundity by the haze, hovered at the purple rim of the western mountains as though hesitating to depart.