“Pa sits in the bow,” said Luke.
“It won’t float the three of you.” Bohn turned away and darkly chewed, refused to look at it.
“What’s that you got there?” asked the Sheriff.
“It’s what we use to hold the oars. I’ll row.”
“Oars!” Bohn spat into the white sand. Then: “I’ll tell you, Lampson, we’ll send the Finn out in it, you stay with us.”
The white cane shot through the air, landed point down like a small harpoon. The Finn swung his bolstered legs to retrieve it. He snatched it up and propped himself belligerently some distance off. Then, seeing the signal of the oars drop with finality into place, he hobbled slowly back toward Bohn.
“You,” Cap Leech suddenly spoke as they slipped away, “you’ve come to no good.”
The Sheriff, Harry Bohn, the Finn, waited as close to the water as they dared until in half an hour or an hour the boat should return. There was silence on the shore. Once the Sheriff beat the cob bowl in his palm, once the Finn started to point with his cane, stopped. Behind them, silhouetted on the hill, lay the black truck and smoking wagon. The moon was gone.
Bohn listened. His head unerringly followed something across the peaceful water.
“Did you hear that?” whispered the Finn.