We looked far
tracks, but couldn't make out nuthin'. Thereckly old Ezry punched me
and p'inted out acrost the river. "What's that?" he whispers. Jist
'bout half way acrost was somepin' white-like in the worter--couldn't
make out what--perfeckly still it was. And I whispered back and told
him I guess it wasn't nothin' but a sycamore snag. "Listen!" says he;
"Sycamore snags don't make no noise like that!" And, shore enough, it
was the same moanin' noise we'd heerd the baby makin' when we first
got on the track. Sobbin' she was, as though nigh about dead. "Well,
ef that's Bills," says I--"and I reckon ther' hain't no doubt but it
is--what in the name o' all that's good and bad's the feller
a-standin' there far?" And a-creep-in' clos'ter, we could make him out
plainer and plainer. It was him; and there he stood breast-high in the
worter, a-holdin' the baby on his shoulder like, and a lookin' up
stream, and a-waitin'.
"What do you make out of it?" says Ezry. "What's he waitin' far?"
And a strainin' my eyes in the direction he was a-lookin' I seed
somepin' a-movin' down the river, and a minute later I'd made out the
old boat a-driftin' down stream; and then of course ever'thing was
plain enough: He was waitin' far the boat, and ef he got _that_ he'd
have the same advantage on us he had afore.
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