“It will come some time!”
Red pushed the boy toward the cabin, the look on his face friendlier than ever.
“Go and get into dry clothes,” he said. “Never mind what Sam says! He means all right, only he don’t know how to express himself!”
The Rambler now swung off toward the shore, and Red and Sam were kept busy working wreckage out of her course. They snarled at each other as they worked, and Clay was in constant fear that Sam would play some treacherous trick on the big fellow in return for the blow he had received. The marks of the short encounter were still on his face.
Much to his relief, the Rambler was edged into calmer water next to the Missouri shore. He had no idea at that time, even, that he would lose the boat. He did not know what had become of his chums, but he believed that in some way they would be able to come to his rescue. They had never failed him.
The Rambler drifted down for some distance, leaking a little but not seriously, and was finally worked into a little bay where there was no current.
That was a long day for the boy. Several boats passed up and down on the river, and relief parties searching for flood victims were frequently seen, but Red always announced that they were in no trouble whatever when questioned.
Clay was not bound again, but was kept in the cabin, with the door closed. He could hear calls from passing boats, but did not dare make the situation known.
During the day the outlaws devoured what cooked food there was in the cabin and gave some to the boy. Once Sam lay down for a short nap. Red was not communicative, and refused to answer any questions as to his intentions regarding the Rambler.
A fine mist came down as the night shut in, but presently the moon came out, and the outlaws began discussing the advisability of proceeding on down the river.