“Suits me,” Abe replied, “only before we go thar’s one thing I want to look at.” He selected a fat pine knot from the fire, and holding it as a torch to light his steps, walked slowly back to the edge of the cane, where Congo had vanished. They saw him stoop as if searching for something. Then he called to them. Looking where he pointed in the soft black earth, they saw a track--deep, gigantic, splay-toed--the same footprint that had puzzled them that morning. “That’s the feller,” said Abe. “You’ve seen him before, I reckon, Tad. Wasn’t that Murrell’s nigger?” “Yes,” said Tad, “he must have followed us all the way down from Natchez.” “But how in time did he keep up with us?” asked Abe. “He couldn’t ha’ been aboard of a boat, could he?” Tad told them of the canoe he had glimpsed, stealing between the islands when Abe was making his oar. The big flatboatman nodded. “That was him, right enough,” he said. “Only next time, Tad, don’t be scairt to come right out with what you think. We might have saved ourselves a heap of exercise tonight if we’d known they was layin’ for us.” “Wonder if he planned to paddle clear back to Natchez with Tad in the dugout,” said Allen as they went back across the levee. “No,” Abe answered, thoughtfully. “I b’lieve it was three of Murrell’s gang that I saw gallopin’ down the bluff road that afternoon. Most likely they’re waitin’ somewhere close, maybe in Baton Rouge, fer this tongueless, earless devil to bring Tad in. Let’s drift along.” They put out their fire, went aboard the broadhorn, and cast off the mooring-lines, glad to see the last of Madame Duquesne’s plantation. CHAPTER XVIII Five or six miles below, they sighted a tiny, tree-clad island in midstream, and there once more made the boat fast. This time nothing interrupted their slumbers. They were under the west bank of the island, sheltered by overhanging branches, and the sun was high in the sky before they woke. It was the merry singing of a crew of river-men, floating past on their broad raft of steamboat fuel, that roused Tad. He sat up, saw that the morning was already well along, and gave Allen a dig in the ribs. “Ahoy, you lubbers!” he cried. “Roll out! It’s nearly noon.” He built the breakfast fire, washed himself, and went over to give Poke his morning greeting. As he started to maul the cub playfully, he saw him wince. The little bear limped and held up one forepaw in apparent pain. Looking closer, Tad found that it was bruised, as if it had been trodden on. “Look at this, boys,” he called. “Here’s the real hero of the fight.” And he told how Poke’s growling had first awakened him in the night. “A mighty good little b’ar,” said Abe approvingly. “If that big-footed Congo stepped on him, though, he’s lucky he didn’t have his whole leg squashed.” Allen produced some bacon fat which was rubbed on the wound and which Poke at once set about licking off. After that he seemed to feel much better, and soon was his own droll self again.