The lights fanned out, moving along the shore. I saw that we were safely ahead of them.
"Gaston," I said, "have they got a boat back there?"
"Nah," he replied. "We're in the clear."
The little lights were pitiful, bobbing along the shore, falling behind.
We floated along then in silence for an hour or more. It was still, almost restful. Only a gentle fluttering of the hands was required to keep our heads above water.
Suddenly lights flashed ahead, over the river.
"Cripes," Gaston hissed, backing water. "I forgot about the Salan bridge. Them bunnies is on there waitin' for us."
I could see the bridge, now, as the lights flashed across the pilings. It was about a hundred yards ahead.
"Head for the far shore, Gaston," I said. "Fast and quiet."
I couldn't risk the splash of a crawl stroke, so I dog-paddled frantically, my hands under the surface. They would have had us neatly, if they hadn't shown the lights when they did, I thought. They couldn't see us without them, though, so it was just a chance they had to take. They must have estimated the speed of the river's flow, and tried to pinpoint us. They didn't miss by much; in fact, they might not have missed at all. I concentrated on putting every ounce of energy into my strokes. My knees hit mud, and reeds brushed my face. I rolled over and sat up, breathing hard. Gaston floundered a few feet away.