Gost stepped along, foot by foot, keeping himself near a tree trunk or back from the bank. He could not have been more careful. He believed that he was on the edge of perfect success. He had but to put in practice an old river trick of hailing a shantyboater saying he was a lost man, and asking the way to the levees.
He paused, taking his time and calming his breath. His excitement, his exertions, his wound had greatly wearied and weakened him. He must be careful now. He smiled, as he thought, perhaps, of fooling Urleigh and the girl and all the rest of the gang, whoever they might be.
Luck was better than he had hoped for. He did not have to hail. He heard footsteps on the floor of the cabin-boat crossing toward the near end, or bow. The bolt was turned back in the lock and the door flung open. In the doorway appeared the shantyboater.
"Now! Now!" whispered Gost, bringing his rifle up.
As he did so, he heard something. He turned his face to look over his shoulder. Then on his head fell the crash of ages. The rifle went off. He fell to his knees and upon his face. On his head rained a hundred frantic blows, while a shrill cry went up in the timberland.
