Carrington looked at her curiously.
“This may be a serious business for your people,” he said significantly, and watched her narrowly.
“And you-all may get killed. I reckin if yo' want to do a thing bad enough you don't mind much what comes after,” she answered with a hard little laugh, as she went from the shed.
“Come!” said Carrington to the negro, when he had seen the cabin door close on Bess and her lantern; and they stole across the clearing. Reaching the bayou side they began a noiseless search for the dugout, which they quickly found, and Carrington turned to George. “Can you swim?” he asked.
“Yes, Mas'r.”
“Then go down into the water and drag the canoe farther along the shore—and for God's sake, no sound!” he cautioned.
They placed a second hundred yards between themselves and the keel boat in this manner, then he had George bring the dug-out to the bank, and they embarked. Keeping within the shadow of the trees that fringed the shore, Carrington paddled silently about the head of the bayou.
“George,” he at length said, bending toward the negro; “my horse is tied in the woods on the right-hand side of the road just above where you were taken from the carriage last night—you can be at Belle Plain inside of an hour.”
“Look here, Mas'r Ca'ington, those folks yonder is kin to Boss Hicks. If he get his hand on me first don't you reckon he'll stop my mouth? I been here heaps of times fotchin' letters fo' Mas'r Tom,” added George.
“Who were the letters for?” asked the Kentuckian, greatly surprised.