“I don’t know,” confessed Bob. “Everyone in the department has a feeling that the gang is pointing toward one more big smuggling operation. If the gems had come in last night I have a feeling that more than one man would have been with Hamsa to get them. It just doesn’t seem logical that one man, even though he might be the leader of the gang, would handle this end of the game. I’d be more inclined to think the contact last night was for the purpose of making final plans.”
Chapter XXIX
MORE CLUES
★
The sheriff turned this over in his mind for some time as the train rumbled along the rough right-of-way. Then he nodded and agreed with Bob.
“Looks like you’re right. That means we may be in for a busy time when the actual contact is attempted.”
“We’ll be busy enough, if we can learn where the contact will be made,” retorted the young federal agent.
“What about your uncle?” asked the sheriff.
The exultation which had marked Bob’s features vanished.
“I don’t honestly know. From the reputation of this gang I should fear the worst, but for some reason I have unbounded faith in my uncle’s ability to take care of himself in a crisis. The last we knew was that he disappeared from the waterfront and shortly after that a motorboat sped down the river.”
“Then if a big smuggling operation is under way, it’s just possible that he might be brought down here,” argued the sheriff.
“He might be taken to their hideout,” agreed Bob, “but so far our men have no real clue to that.”
“We may be able to pick up something at Atalissa,” said the sheriff. “I’ve a number of friends there who may be able to give me information you never could get.”
As the accommodation jogged toward the coast, the country became wilder and they rumbled across narrow bridges that spanned bayous and salt streams. Undergrowth was thick and almost jungle-like. They were in one of the wildest sections of the Florida coast—uninviting, inhospitable, and for years the hideout for lawbreakers of various kinds.
The brakes went on sharply and the little train swung around a curve as the wheels shrieked a protest. Looking ahead, Bob could see a huddle of houses around a large bayou. Beyond that was a narrow opening and further out a glimpse of the blue Atlantic. This, then, must be Atalissa, his present destination.
The sheriff stood up, and looked at his watch.
“Lucky trip this morning,” he declared. “Usually the local has a couple of derailments.”
The train pulled up before a dilapidated station and Bob and the sheriff stepped down on a rough plank platform. The only others visible were the train crew and the station agent.
“Town looks quiet,” said the sheriff as they started down the one street which was flanked on one side by the clear waters of the bayou and on the other by a long line of buildings, some of them stores and the others places of residence.
The first building, a story and a half structure, was a barber shop and the sheriff turned in here.
“Morning, sheriff,” said the barber.
“Morning, Emil,” replied the sheriff. “Want you to meet a friend of mine, Bob Houston. Northerner. He’s down for a few days loafing and maybe a little fishing. Know anything new?”
The barber, inclined to stoutness and baldness, shook his head.
“Not even any good fishing left,” he sighed.
“Everybody behavin’?” asked the sheriff.
“Just what are you driving at?” the barber asked.
“Nothing special; just thought you might have heard of something,” grinned the sheriff.
“Matter of fact, I have,” retorted the barber. “Somebody’s been flying around here the last couple of nights with a plane of some kind.”
“That ain’t so unusual, is it?” asked the sheriff. “We’ve been used to all kinds of things along this coast.”
“Well, that wasn’t so strange, but this morning when I was fishing down in Harpey’s bayou a boat came through there so fast it was nothing but a black streak and a flash of spray. Blamed thing must have been doing forty an hour.”
Bob’s eyes glinted.
“Where did it go?”
“Now I was only in a rowboat and I wouldn’t know where a speed boat went,” replied the barber. Then, seeing the chagrin on Bob’s face, he added, “I’d almost be willing to bet that it was heading for Lost Island.”
Bob saw a queer expression flit across the sheriff’s face.
“I might have known that’s where such a boat would be going,” he groaned. “Why couldn’t it be toward some other island?”
“I wouldn’t know,” grinned the barber, who sensed that the sheriff was in Atalissa on some important mission. Bob saw the barber scanning his coat and he wondered if the gun in the shoulder holster was visible. If it was, it would reveal instantly that he was an officer, and not the vacationer that the sheriff had pictured him to be.
“Guess we’ll be getting a boat and heading south,” said the sheriff. “Just don’t say anything to anyone else on what you saw this morning.”
“Not a word, sheriff,” said the barber, and they left the small shop.
“Queer fellow,” nodded the sheriff as they proceeded down the street toward a wharf. “He knows everything that’s going on and he protects a lot of people, but when some outsiders come in and start breaking the law, I can always figure he’ll tell me the truth.”
“What do you make of it?” asked Bob.
“I’d say that the more men you can get in here, the better it will be. Emil knows something queer is going on at Lost Island and it was just his way of telling me to get there in a hurry. But I don’t like that place. It’s too lonesome and it’s so big a man can get lost on it for days.”
“I didn’t know there were any islands that large along here,” replied Bob.
“It isn’t actually an island,” explained the sheriff, “but there’s water on three sides of it and it’s swampy and about as dismal as the last place on earth. Always been a favorite hiding place for men trying to get away from the law.”
Chapter XXX
READY FOR ACTION
★
At the wharf the sheriff dickered for the rental of a boat and a 20-foot craft with a sturdy four cylinder motor was secured. There was nothing speedy about it, but it looked eminently safe.
“We may be gone a couple of nights. I know where I can get some duffel and grub. You’d better send word for more of your men to get in here,” said the sheriff, and while he went in quest of the camping supplies, Bob walked back to the station.
He had been warned to use extreme caution in sending out any messages from Atalissa, but there was no time to drive to another town and he preferred to telegraph rather than to telephone.
The message went in code and it took him some time to compose it. Very briefly he outlined what he had learned from the sheriff, concluding, “Now believe Merritt Hughes has been brought to Lost Island and that attempt to bring in large amount of gems will be made soon.”
Bob did not leave the old depot until the telegram was humming over the wires on its way to Washington. Then he returned to the wharf and found the sheriff waiting.
“We’ll start at once,” said the officer. “I’ve got a snack put up for our lunch and we’ll eat on the way. Save time.”
Bob stepped into the bow of the boat where the sheriff had stowed away the federal agent’s large bag and the officer jumped into the stern. The motor was turning over smoothly. The sheriff threw in the clutch and they moved away.
The young federal agent looked back at the sleepy village which was strung along the bayou. The barber came out of his shop and waved at them and the man on the wharf, from whom they had rented the boat, watched them, his hands shielding his eyes from the glaring rays of the mid-day sun.
Sheriff McCurdy headed the boat toward the seaway, but before they reached it swung it sharply to the right and they chugged through a narrow passageway that twisted and turned interminably.
“How under the sun can you find your way through all this maze of channels?” asked Bob, understanding now why it was an ideal spot to carry on smuggling operations.
“Been in this country all my life,” explained the sheriff, “but once in a while I get lost. Then I usually just sit still until someone hunts me up.”
A larger expanse of water opened ahead of them.
“Harpey’s bayou,” said the sheriff. “This is where Emil was fishing when that black speed boat came through.”
The sheriff put the rudder bar between his legs and unwrapped a package which had been resting on the floor boards in the bottom of the boat. Inside were half a dozen thick sandwiches, heavily laden with butter and with generous slices of cold ham between the bread.
They ate the sandwiches as the launch chugged through the quiet waters of Harpey’s bayou.
The sheriff produced a jug of cold water and after a deep drink apiece, they nosed the boat out of the bayou and into another twisting channel, which, while deep, was heavily overgrown with trees which arched above the water until they formed a perfect tunnel.
The air was cool and dank and Bob shuddered involuntarily as he thought of the loneliness which would descend upon such an area when the sun went down.
“How far is it to Lost Island?” he asked the sheriff.
“Depends on just which part we’re going to. The nearest point is about eight miles from here.”
They went on for some distance without speaking, the sheriff devoting practically all of his time to watching the channel.
A little more than half an hour later he shut off the engine and skillfully guided the boat into a backwater where they would not be visible from the main channel.
Sheriff McCurdy dropped the heavy piece of iron which served as an anchor overboard and Bob was surprised to note that the water was at least eight or nine feet deep.
“Better look over your guns. We may need them in a hurry,” advised the sheriff.
Chapter XXXI
A BOAT FLASHES PAST
★
Bob got out his Gladstone bag and opened it, removing the case which held his rifle.
He assembled the gun and filled the magazine with shells. Placing it against his shoulder, he aimed at a spot some distance away when a sharp call from the sheriff stopped the steady pressure of his finger on the trigger.
“Don’t take any chances with a shot now giving an alarm to anyone,” he warned. “Remember that the men who hide out down here are all wary of any gunshots.”
Bob lowered the gun and he knew that his cheeks were burning for, had he thought of the possible result, he would not have attempted a practice shot or two.
The sheriff, probing his own roll of duffel, unearthed a serviceable looking gun.
“Borrowed this from the barber,” he grinned. “It isn’t quite as fancy a gun as yours but it will carry well and I’ve used it once or twice before, so I’m used to handling it.”
The sheriff drew out his pipe and lighted it, settling back against the gunwale.
“Aren’t we going on?” asked Bob.
“Not much use right now,” replied the officer. “We’d be spotted in a minute. We’ll wait until dusk. Then we can cruise along the island. They’ll be sure to have a fire of some kind for the nights are getting chilly.”
Bob knew that the sheriff was right, but the thought of inactivity while his uncle was in the hands of gangsters galled his active spirit. However, he made the best of it and tried to doze.
An hour slipped away when the exhaust of a motorboat, evidently coming at high speed, echoed through the lowlands.
The sheriff sat up quickly, glanced at his rifle, and then picked up an oar and paddled their boat closer toward a thicket so that they were well hidden from the channel which passed within a short distance of the bayou where they had sought temporary refuge.
The noise of the oncoming boat was clearer.
“Coming fast,” grunted the sheriff, balancing his rifle in his hands.
Bob, crouched in the bow, saw a gray boat shoot into sight in the main channel. It was not more than 200 feet away and only one man was in the boat. With a start he recognized the crouched figure of Joe Hamsa. Then the gray speeder was gone, only a broad, spreading wake remaining to mark its passage.
The federal agent turned to the sheriff.
“We’ve got to follow him. That was Joe Hamsa.”
The sheriff shook his head.
“We’re not following him now; still too light. Besides I know he’s headed for the island. Listen to him go!”
The roar of the exhaust gradually died away and the sheriff turned to Bob.
“You’re sure that was your man?”
“Positive,” replied Bob.
Sheriff McCurdy looked at his borrowed rifle once more and Bob saw the deep lines of the peace officer’s face tighten.
They remained for another hour in the seclusion of the small bayou and before they started out again the shadows were deepening and the warmth of the afternoon was vanishing.
Sheriff McCurdy started the motor of their boat and Bob pulled up the mud-covered anchor. With the motor throttle well down they started for Lost Island and Bob was thankful that their boat had an underwater exhaust which it was almost impossible to hear.
After leaving the shelter of the bayou, Sheriff McCurdy operated their boat with extreme caution and just before they came within sight of Lost Island he stopped the boat and spoke to Bob.
“We may be poking our heads into a hornet’s nest,” he warned. “Want to go on or wait until additional federal men can get to Atalissa and we can bring them down here?”
“That might be too late,” decided Bob. “We’ll go on.”
The sheriff started the motor and once more they were in forward motion, the bow of their small boat knifing its way through the waters of a larger lagoon.
Chapter XXXII
LOST ISLAND AHEAD
★
Ahead of them lay a long, low mass of tangled undergrowth.
“Lost Island,” said the sheriff cryptically and Bob felt his blood beating faster. It was toward this spot that the black speed boat sighted by the barber had been going and it was also toward this spot that Joe Hamsa had been hurrying in the gray motorboat.
The motor of their own boat died suddenly and Bob looked toward the sheriff, whose face was still dimly discernible in the faint light.
“No more noise; we’ll use oars from now on.”
Bob helped put the oars in their sockets. There were two pairs and they bent their backs to the task of rowing.
“This may be an all night job,” grunted the sheriff, “but it will be worth it if I can catch up with the fellow who threw me out of the car last night.”
The boat, although not large, was heavy and in less than half an hour Bob had blisters on both hands and his back ached mightily.
“Ease up a bit,” advised the sheriff. “We’ll drift along here and rest.”
Bob welcomed the chance to straighten up and he let the oars rest in the oarlocks while he stood up in the boat.
A flicker of light to the left caught his eye and he spoke quietly to the sheriff.
“There’s a light to your left,” he said. “Stand up and look at it.”
Sheriff McCurdy stood up in the stern.
“I expected something like this,” he grunted. “Might as well rest a bit, though, for I’ve too many kinks in my back now to think of a good scrap.”
The boat drifted gently and the sheriff told what he knew about the island.
“This is one of the highest parts,” he explained, “and one of the driest. Not much swamp right here and the footing should be good. On the other side there’s an old pier and a sort of hunting house that was built years ago by some northerners. I expect we’ll find the men we want over there.”
Bob was too impatient to rest very long, and at his insistence, they took up the oars again and turned the bow of their boat toward shore.
Moving like a shadow and with as little noise, they guided their craft in toward the island. The bow stuck in soft mud three or four feet from the shore and the sheriff grunted his distaste.
“We’ll have to wade in,” he complained. “I’ll get wet and that will make my rheumatism bad again.”
Bob dropped their anchor over into the mud and the sheriff stuck two of the spark plugs from the motor in his pocket, effectively disabling the boat from use.
With Bob in the lead, they dropped over the side. The muck and ooze was cold and slimy and Bob felt his legs plowing in about six inches of the clammy stuff. Fortunately they were ashore in about four long strides.
They paused long enough to loosen the guns in their shoulder holsters and to look at the safeties on their rifles. Then, with the sheriff in the lead, they started for the far side of the narrow island.
There was plenty of underbrush, but the ground was firm, and by treading cautiously, they made progress without making much noise.
From a little knoll which they ascended they could look down on the other side of the island and the light which Bob had seen from a distance was plainly visible.
It was a torch of some kind and was apparently mounted on a rather tall pole, for the flame flickered in the light breeze which was sweeping in from the open sea.
Moving even more cautiously than before, Bob and the sheriff started down for the camp which they knew must be in the blackness beyond the light.
Chapter XXXIII
OUT OF THE NIGHT
★
It was a dismal adventure and it took real courage to move even another step forward, but Bob was driven on by the thought that his uncle might be on the island and that success tonight would bring about his return and smash the ring of smugglers he had been assigned to break up.
As they neared the light it was plain that the flare was mounted on a pole about twenty feet tall and Bob stopped the sheriff.
“That looks like a beacon for a plane,” he muttered.
“If it is, it fits in with your theory that they’ll land the smuggled gems by plane,” replied Sheriff McCurdy.
They went on, treading easily and giving the circle of light cast by the flare a wide birth.
Against the blackness of the waters of a broad bayou which flanked the other side of Lost Island loomed the outline of a ramshackle structure and though the windows appeared to be boarded up, faint rays of light crept through a number of cracks. Bob half stumbled on a stick and the noise brought the quick baying of a hound.
“We’re in for it now,” said the sheriff, and Bob felt that trouble, and serious trouble, was just ahead.
A door in the house was thrown open and against the oblong of light could be seen the silhouette of a man. Then he stepped out into the night, to be followed by a second man, stockier and heavier than the first.
“Stay down,” whispered the sheriff. “Maybe they’ll miss us. We don’t want trouble now.”
Before the men could leave the shelter of the house, the low drone of an incoming plane could be heard. Bob turned toward the east. A red and green light, marking the wing tips of a plane, were visible. The craft was low and evidently coming in fast.
Even above the noise of the plane, they could hear a shouted command near the old house, and one of the men who had stepped outside turned on a flash light and raced toward the pier, some distance away. He was followed, at a slower pace by the second man.
“That’s Hamsa, I’m sure,” said Bob.
“Let’s get inside and see if anyone is there,” said Sheriff McCurdy and they moved around so that the house was between them and the pier.
Landing lights of the plane blinked on as it circled over them and once the powerful beams swept down on the clearing, but Bob and the Sheriff, anticipating that, had dropped to the ground behind an old log and were safe, for the moment, from discovery.
“Must be either a seaplane or an amphibian,” said Bob as the plane prepared to alight on the water.
“Get inside,” urged the sheriff, who would feel better when he had some shelter.
The two men on the pier were concentrating their attention on the plane swinging over the lagoon and the hound which had sounded the alarm was beside them, so it was a comparatively simple matter for Bob to jump across the threshold.
Inside the door, where only an oil lamp cast faint illumination, he crouched with his rifle in his hands, accustoming his eyes to the light. There was, apparently, no one in the room.
He spoke softly to the sheriff, who was waiting just outside.
“All clear; come on!”
With one bound the sheriff was inside and like Bob he had his rifle ready for instant action.
Squinting between cracks in the wall, the sheriff watched the action in the lagoon. The plane smacked the surface of the water sharply and came to rest several hundred feet from the end of the old pier. The men waiting there put out in a motorboat, making directly for the plane, which was bobbing around on the waves which it had stirred up in the quiet waters.
Chapter XXXIV
IN THE SHANTY
★
Sheriff McCurdy turned from the wall and watched Bob open the door to the second room. He saw the young federal agent drop to his knees and his gun clatter while a choked sob escaped from Bob’s lips.
The sheriff crossed the room in several bounds and bent down over Bob, who was kneeling beside the bound and gagged figure of a man.
Without asking questions, the sheriff handed Bob a knife and the ropes and gag were slashed.
“Uncle Merritt, Uncle Merritt,” cried Bob. “Speak to me.” There was desperation in his voice.
Merritt Hughes opened his eyes and tried to smile. His lips and tongue were swollen from the gag, but the expression in his eyes gave Bob courage.
“We’d better get him out of here,” said Bob. “They’ll be back and we won’t be ready for them.”
Before they could turn, a harsh laugh echoed through the room and the heavy voice of Joe Hamsa lashed at them.
“You’re not going any place, boys, except where I want you to and you’ll never return from there.”
Bob started to move, but a quick command from Hamsa stopped him.
“Don’t move kid. I’ve got a machine gun on you and my finger is nervous. Turn around slowly and don’t either one of you try any gunplay.”
They started to turn slowly when Bob was amazed by a quick gesture of his uncle’s. Hidden in the heavy shadow of the little room which adjoined the larger one, he reached up and like a flash seized the revolver which was in the shoulder holster. There wasn’t even the rustle of Bob’s coat as the gun was whisked away and Bob continued to turn slowly toward Hamsa.
The man who had claimed to be a diamond salesman was standing in the doorway, a machine gun in his hands. Behind him was a man with a scar, whom Bob recognized from the descriptions obtained in Jacksonville must have been the abductor of his uncle. To the rear of these two was a slender chap, little older than Bob and with a thin face. He was in a flyer’s outfit and in his hands carried a soft leather case.
“Get their guns, Rap,” barked Hamsa, and the man with the scar came forward, his hands patting the sheriff for weapons. The gun was taken from the shoulder holster and the rifle was tossed across the room.
The man known as Rap then turned to Bob and his hands found the empty holster.
“Gun’s gone,” said Rap flatly and without expression.
“Where?” demanded Hamsa.
“Lost in the brush,” fibbed Bob.
The answer seemed to satisfy them and Rap took the rifle from Bob’s hands.
“Take this gun and keep those fellows covered while Curt and I check over the stuff he brought in,” ordered Hamsa, handing his weapon to Rap while the fellow, whom he had called Curt, strode into the room and placed his black leather case on the rough table.
Bob gasped as the velvet lined case was opened and scores of gleaming diamonds were revealed. A king’s fortune was spread on the table in front of them and Hamsa, an ugly light in his eyes, looked at his captives.
“So you federal men thought you were smart enough for Joe Hamsa?” he chortled. “Well, this is your last assignment. You’ve seen me and you’ve seen how we bring in the stuff. This is my last job. I’ll make a cool million on it. Think it over.”
He turned back to the pile of gems and ran them through his stubby fingers, gloating at the wealth that was on the table.
“What are we going to do now?” asked Curt.
“Sink your plane and the gray boat. We’ll use the black one for a getaway and we’ll burn this place before we leave.”
“How about the federal men?” The flyer gestured toward Bob and the others.
“Maybe we’ll sink them, too,” said Hamsa and there was deadly mirth in his words.
The man known as Rap started to laugh, but a sharp explosion back of Bob turned the laugh into a sob and Rap, gasping for breath, sank to the floor.
Chapter XXXV
REVERSING THE TABLES
★
Hamsa whirled toward the officers, a gun in his right hand. Before he could use it, there was another explosion and Hamsa reeled back against the wall, his right arm hanging limp and useless, the gun which it had held falling to the floor.
“Don’t move!” The command was low and husky, but there was authority in the words and Bob, out of the corner of one eye, saw his uncle step out of the small room to the rear. From this position of advantage he had disabled Rap, the machine gunner, and wounded Hamsa. Curt, the flyer, had his hands in the air.
“Pick up their guns, Bob,” commanded his uncle and Bob picked up the machine gun and the revolver Hamsa had dropped.
“Search them!”
This time the sheriff stepped forward and with hands long experienced in that kind of work, searched even the hats of the others. A gun was taken from the flyer and a stubby but deadly pistol from Rap. These were placed on the table beside the glittering pile of diamonds.
“Got any handcuffs, sheriff?” asked Bob’s uncle after the young federal agent introduced his ally.
Two small, compact pairs were produced from the capacious pockets of the peace officer. One pair was snapped on Hamsa and the other on Curt and Rap.
While Bob and his uncle went about the task of giving first aid to Rap and Hamsa, the sheriff went down to the old wharf to inspect the boats.
When he returned, the bandaging was done, for neither wound was serious.
“We can start any time you want to,” he informed the federal men.
“Take these fellows down. We’ll be along shortly,” replied Merritt Hughes, and when Hamsa and his allies had been led away by the sheriff, he sat down on one side of the table and motioned for Bob to take a seat opposite him.
“Let’s hear your side of the story, Bob,” said his uncle as he sat down, massaging the red marks which the tightly tied ropes had made on his hands.
Chapter XXXVI
UNTANGLING THE WEB
★
It was a strange setting, the rays from the kerosene lamp on the table throwing a soft glow over the diamonds which were still heaped on the black velvet.
Bob was anxious to tell his own story, but first he wanted to know about his uncle.
“Sure you’re all right?” he asked.
“Oh, my arms and legs are still a little numb and I can’t talk any too well, but I’m coming around fast now.”
Bob launched into a detailed explanation of all of the events which had taken place since the disappearance of his uncle in Jacksonville.
“Luckiest thing that ever happened to me was when I ran into the sheriff,” he said.
“No doubt about it,” agreed his uncle. Then he went on, “The men we captured tonight are the brains of the gang. From what Hamsa said after he got here this afternoon I gathered that two more members of the gang were picked up by you and Condon Adams last night.”
“That’s right,” said Bob. “But I can’t figure out how Hamsa got down here so soon and I thought he’d never get out of the river he fell into on the way down from Washington.”
“Hamsa is a tough customer,” said Merritt Hughes. “He has a tremendous physique and was able to swim to shore. Then he chartered a private plane and came south.”
“They’ve been running in the diamonds by plane all the time,” said Bob.
“Curt has been their pilot. He’s got a fast amphibian and last night he made contact with Hamsa near Atalissa and informed him that a large consignment would be delivered tonight. They were careful to make only the contacts with the smuggled gems here to keep suspicions away from this island.”
“Where did Curt get the gems?” Bob wanted to know.
“They were brought over from Europe aboard tramp steamers. Curt would contact the ships well off the coast and then fly the smuggled stuff in at night. They were careful about the type of gems they brought in. Why these diamonds on the table could be sold almost any place without suspicion. In fact, Hamsa actually went around the country peddling them to customers who had no idea that they were smuggled property.”
Bob, leaning back in his chair, looked at his uncle.
“You must have been brought directly here,” he said.
“Just as fast as the fellow they call Rap could get me here. Hamsa had been in Washington. Somehow he got wind that Department of Justice men were being put on his trail and he learned that Adams and I had been sent south. It was up to Rap to get us out of the way. Then Hamsa came down and it was just luck that he met you and Tully on the train. What looked like a bad situation for us turned out all right.”
Bob chuckled.
“Won’t Tully be sore when he learns that the whole case has been cleared up without him getting even as far as Jacksonville.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Tully, Bob. This is another feather in your cap. Just keep plugging away and you’ll get toward the top in the Department mighty fast.”
Merritt Hughes bent down and gathered up the smuggled gems, wrapping them in the velvet and replacing them in the leather case.
“We might as well destroy this place so that it will no longer be used for such purposes,” he said, and as he stepped out of the door behind Bob he aimed a shot at the kerosene lamp. A sheet of flame spread through the interior of the shanty and the dry wood crackled lustily as the fire ate into it.
The glow of the burning shanty illuminated the clearing and they found their way easily to the old wharf where Sheriff McCurdy and his prisoners were waiting for them. Further out the amphibian was drifting at its anchor.
“We’ll have to leave that for another trip,” smiled Merritt Hughes. “Sheriff, let’s start for town. I’m hungry and sleepy.”
With their three captives in the bow, Bob and his uncle just behind them and the sheriff at the wheel at the rear, they started out of the bayou, another successful chapter written in the bureau of investigation’s war on crime.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes
★
- Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.
- Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.
- In the text versions only, delimited italicized text by underscores.