“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.”