"There were three shots, just as we've always agreed, but then they were scattered somewhat. I hardly agree with you, Bluff, though it may be true. I hope it is, and yet Jerry must have known we had no boat. He would hardly want us to come ashore unless he was in a mighty serious pickle."
"Anyhow, we're nearly there, and must soon know the worst," said Bluff, whose face looked a bit peaked under the suspense.
More through accident than design, they landed close to the spot where the old palmetto shack could be seen. Frank pointed to an enclosure along the edge of the bayou, made by piling up logs and pieces of coquina rock.
"Turtle crawl," he said, as they hurried past, and Bluff only gave it one look, for his attention was taken up with the more serious matter that had brought them ashore.
Advancing to the shack, Frank looked in, but there did not appear to be a living soul around.
He surveyed his surroundings with anxiety. Great live-oaks, with their crooked limbs covered with the trailing Spanish moss; tall palmettos, and shorter young ones of the same type; gumbo-limbo trees, wild plum, and several wild orange trees, made up the immediate surroundings.
"Oh! if we only had some idea which way he could have gone!" exclaimed
Frank.
"Perhaps he left a trail," was the bright thought of Bluff.
"Almost impossible to map it out in this black sand," Frank replied; but, nevertheless, he started to look, since there was nothing else to do.
A dozen impossible things flashed through Frank's brain as he bent over to try and pick up the tracks of his missing chum. Whatever could have happened to Jerry? Usually he was able to take good care of himself; could it be possible that some inmate of the dilapidated shack had stolen upon him, bent upon robbery? In that case, how account for the shots?