er
boats--mere phantoms in their white paint--cast off also, and followed,
their smoke wreaths trailing behind as they likewise turned their prows
up stream. Ten minutes later the three were almost in line, mere blobs
of color, barely distinguishable through the descending dusk.

I swam slowly ashore, creeping up the low bank into the seclusion of a
shallow, sandy gully, scooped out by the late rains. The air was mild,
and I experienced no chill from my wet clothes, the warmth of the sand
helping to dry them on my body. The river and sky were darkening fast,
the more brilliant stars already visible. The western shore had
entirely vanished, while nothing remained in evidence of those
department boats except the dense black smoke smudge still outlined
against the lighter arch of sky overhead. To my left the camp fires of
the soldiers still remaining at Yellow Banks began to show red with
flame through the shadows of intervening trees, and I could hear the
noise of hammering, together with an occasional strident voice.
Immediately about me all was silent, the steadily deepening gloom
rendering my surroundings vaguely indistinct.

Thus far I possessed no plan--except to seek her. How this was to be
accomplished appeared in no way clear. I lay there, my mind busy with
the perplexing problem. Where could Kirby go, now that he was ashore?
How could he hope to find concealment in the midst of that rough camp?
that little, squalid frontier settlement of a few log huts? Could it
be possible that he had friends there--old cronies to whom he might
venture to appeal for shelter, and protection? men of his own kidney to
whom he could confide his secret? As the thought occurred to me it
seemed quite possible; indeed it scarcely appeared probable that he
would, under any other circumstances, have made the choice he did.

Surely such a man could never have risked going ashore unless some
definite plan of action had already formulated itself in his mind. And
why should the fellow not possess friends at Yellow Banks? He knew the
river intimately and all the river towns; possibly he had even landed
here before. He was a man feared, hated, but obeyed the full length of
the great stream; his name stood for reckless daring, unscrupulous
courage everywhere; he could command the admiration and loyalty of
every vicious character in the steamboat service between Fort Crawford
and New Orleans. It was hardly likely that none of thes