river in the shantyboat, so Storit took up the chase again.
Thus Storit followed his man down, keeping his boat in sight, and ducking in and out sometimes ahead, sometimes behind. He would teach that kind of folks not to trifle with him. He certainly would—and taking his time, watching his chance, Storit held to the chase. And then one day the shantyboat was blown into a bayou.
This served Storit's purpose, of course. But someone else was chasing down, about that time. The other pursuit bothered Storit, who did not know its intent. He hung back ready to turn back, or run in, or play the rôle of innocent spectator, according to the time and opportunity.
His eyes, river-keen and perhaps of preternatural sight, picked up the motorboat that started up the river and then stopped and drifted down. That incident, meaning much or little, compelled him to wait, and his waiting was rewarded. The boat returned in a day or two, and this night it landed below his own boat, and the man climbed up the bank and started sneaking down toward the bayou.
Storit, animal and human, too, followed him. Something in the man's figure, something in his gait, something in the silhouette he made against the black night, awakened vague memories in Storit's mind.
