"I believe they are. Perhaps this is the sheriff on the run for our black friend, George," returned Frank.
"Oh! I hope not. I don't believe the poor chap is as dangerous as all that. I have an idea he's more sinned against than sinning," replied Will, who always looked on the better side of those he met, and hence was an easy mark for sharpers.
The men in the boat came ashore. Our friends then saw that the dogs were of a black-and-tan color, with long ears, and the aspect that distinguishes bloodhounds.
"Mornin', neighbors. Takin' a trip down the river, I see. That's right. Like to see youngsters enjyin' themselves. I'm the sheriff o' this heah county, an' these gentlemen is my deputies. We're a-lookin' fo' a desprit scoundrel thet hes been doin' heaps o' mischief 'round heah. His latest work was tuh rob the house o' a cotton planter named Davis, an' nigh about kill the old man. We want him, an' we're jest 'bout determined not tuh go back without the skunk. Don't s'pose yuh could 'a' set eyes on sech a pizen critter, gents?" said the leader.
He was a tall, lean man, with a hawklike nose and keen blue eyes. He wore a long frock coat, considerably the worse for wear, and this, with his slouch hat, gave him the appearance of a Western marshal, in the eyes of Jerry, at least.
"Who was this scoundrel?" asked Frank uneasily.
"His name is Bob Young, an' he's really the son o' a minister upcountry, but long ago his father cast him off as a scamp. He'll sure swing one o' these days," replied the sheriff, looking keenly at Frank, as though he suspected he might know something that he wanted to hear.
"Then he's a white man?" asked the other quickly, and with evident relief.
"Shore he is, an' the toughest ever. Seen any sign o' him, stranger?"
"Not a thing. We had a coon in camp last night, starving, and we fed him. He was Black George, the man they ran out of town some time back," ventured Frank.