"Do steamers ever go up this river?" I asked, surprised at the volume of water.
He glanced around at me, as though startled at my voice.
"Yas, sah; putty near eny sorter boat kin. Ah nebber tried it, fer Massa Donaldson hed no bus'ness ober in dis kintry, but Ah's heerd 'em talk down ter Saint Louee. Trouble is, sah, we's got started in de wrong place—dar's plenty watah t'other side dis yere bar."
"Who told you the best way to find Shrunk?"
His eyes widened and searched my face, evidently still somewhat suspicious of any white man.
"A nigger down Saint Louee way, sah. Dey done cotched him, an' brought him back afore he even got ter Beardstown."
"And you believe you can guide us there?"
"Ah sure can, if whut dat nigger sed wus correct, sah. Ah done questioned him mighty par'ticlar, an' Ah 'members ebery sign whut he giv' me." He grinned broadly. "Ah sorter suspicion'd Ah mought need dat informa'ion."
"All right, then; it is certainly light enough now—let's push off."
We had taken the sand lightly, and were able to pole the boat into deep water with no great difficulty. I remained crouched at the bow, ready for any emergency, while the engine resumed its chugging, and Sam guided us out toward the swifter current of the stream. The broader river behind us remained veiled in mist, but the gray light was sufficient for our purpose, enabling us to proceed slowly until our craft had rounded the protruding headland, out of sight from below. Here the main channel cut across to the left bank, and we forced into the deeper shadows of the overhanging woods.