A boat was abroad on the inky tide, and for the first time in many years, superstition reigned in the old hunter’s heart. It was an admirable place for ghosts to float their specter barks, and sail with their phantom brides locked in their arms. Involuntarily Doc Bell shrunk from the water, and turned his eyes toward the plash of the ghoulish paddles.
Nearer and nearer came the craft, and though he could not see it, he knew when it was opposite the spot where they crouched.
All at once, voices came from the boat, and the hunter clutched the Peoria’s arm.
“Curse you, faster, chief!” they heard a hollow voice say, in a tone of command. “Heavens! if I were stronger!”
“The watery track is dark,” was the reply, which stamped the speaker an Indian.
“Faster, anyhow!” was the hollow and grated rejoinder. “The devil is guiding his own now, and you can not wander from the path. The girl will wake soon.”
Doc Bell griped Swamp Oak’s arm tighter than ever, as the last sentence came to their ears.
“The gal, Injun; those devils hev got Kate Blount!”
The Peoria did not reply.
He was thunderstruck.