There were reasons for this precaution, the scout had assured them. Having guessed their plan, the kidnapers might even now be lurking in the shadow of some cove, ready to pounce upon them. For this Red was not unprepared. One of the “shootin’ irons” hung at his belt.
Keeping close to shore, they passed great jagged piles of rock that loomed large in the night. They crossed “Nebraska Bay,” skirted more rocks, then, following the scout’s advice, cut boldly away toward the rocky shoals which, because of the darkness, could not be seen.
“Listen!” The boy rested on his oars. There came no sound save the sound of heavy swells breaking lazily over distant rocks.
“There’ll be some roll out there,” he murmured.
Then over the waters there moved a breath of air that, beginning with a whisper, ended with a sigh as it passed on into the night.
“How weird it seems out here!”
“Spooky!”
To break the spell, they took up the oars.
And now, as on that other occasion, they dropped into the steady rhythmic swing that would carry them far and tire them not at all.
They did not sing, nor whistle, nor even hum. That would not be safe. For all that, their spirits blended as one as they swept along to the dreamy swing of “Blue Danube,” “Indian Love Song” and “Where the River Shannon Flows.”