“I heard,” said Bohn. His eyes were white, he continued to stand despite the pain in his legs. “Keep quiet,” he told the Sheriff. And then more softly to the Finn: “You figure they’re heading the same way as me?”
He listened for sounds of the three men crouched in the boat, his lips moved as he repeated and memorized a poor stroke of the oars, a word or two that could be recalled and fanned when they returned. “Another fifteen minutes,” without looking at the Finn, “and I’m going after them.”
“There,” whispered the Finn, “is he crazy?”
“ I heard,” Bohn said again. He watched as if he could see the suddenly phosphorous wake of the rowboat shrinking about its passengers. “I’ll burn it,” he said.
“Listen,” the Finn began to dance on rickety legs, muttered, about to throw himself in the water, “listen!”
The squeak of oarlocks drifted out of the darkness. With every moment Bohn felt the uncertainty of things afloat. The pain in his back, his sore knees, the rubbing wings in his breath flashed sudden signals as he stood still. On the side of his neck a blood vessel began to tick, he abruptly extended his elbow for the Finn to steady. Gradually — and there was no sound, not a tremor except from beyond in the boat — he discovered something which, at his age and no longer able to wait, he could not bear.
“They start up,” prodding the Finn, “then stop.”
The rowboat turned. “I’ll put my foot through it!” Again out of reach they idled and Bohn heard the oars drawn up.
“Over there,” whispered the Finn.
Bohn towered on the shore. His legs shook first. Still trying to listen above the sounds of his own body, his hands shook, his arms, shoulders and head wagged as the boat pulled away. He rose in the darkness with rage enough to carry it home on his back.