Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926

Now that he was actually on the old Murel Route to the Mississippi, the conviction became stronger than ever that the bandits would make for that outlet to the river. They would have to travel by boat, since the vast wilderness spreading eastward to the Big River was so crisscrossed by sloughs and bayous, to say nothing of immense areas of treacherous marshland, as to render overland travel practically impossible. Furthermore, so long as they kept to the water, hounds could not trail them.

It was a thousand to one that they were following some stream in the swamp, and Calhoun was guessing at which one. He felt that, given his exhaustive knowledge of the country, his choice was something better than a guess. It was a well-based calculation.

The channel of Little Bear River is not more than one hundred feet at its widest; on each side the wilderness walls it in; having no banks, the stream spreads out through crane-brakes, cypress swamps and flats, sometimes for miles into the timber. The dead water back of the brakes can be navigated by boatmen who know the stream, and it is possible to travel the whole length of the river without ever showing up in the channel. Slow progress, certainly, but safe, since to find a craft in the tangle is virtually impossible. Whisky runners know the ins and outs of such trails well, and make good use of them.

When Calhoun reached the juncture of Beaver Creek and Little Bear he was, according to his calculations, at least six hours ahead of the quarry. He knew the distance they would have to cover to get there, and he knew the maximum speed they would be able to make in their boats. At the outside, he had six hours the advantage.

The hour was nine in the evening, and a late moon was silvering the water, showing up objects in the channel, but intensifying the darkness of the shore lines. Cal continued downstream for half an hour longer, then steered his bateau out of the channel and back of a screen of cane on the left hand side of the river. He took a spool of black sewing thread from his pocket, attached one end to a stalk of cane about three inches above tire surface of the water, then crossed in a straight line into the cover on the right hand side, unwinding the thread from the spool at he went. There he secured the free end of the thread to a second stalk of cane, anchored the bateau and spread his blankets in it. That done he untied the thread and fastened it around the thumb of his left hand.

“A boat can’t pass without striking the thread,” he said to himself as he stretched out, “and I’ve got a sensitive thumb.”

Two minutes later he was sleeping.

Whether it was the jerking of the thread or the rocking of the bateau that awakened him Cal did not know. Dawn was just breaking when he became dimly conscious that the weather had changed during the night, and a wind storm was brewing. He sat up, and at that instant the thread suddenly tightened about his thumb, then released suddenly as the bow of a boat clove it in two.

Calhoun was wide awake on the instant, peering through the opening in his screen at the stretch of water immediately within his vision.

A long dugout, carrying two paddlers, dipped by, followed by another a moment later. It also carried two men. Cal waited, scarcely breathing. There were no more.

“I guessed right!” he exclaimed mentally, a pleased grin on his face. “Now I know where they are, and their probable objective — what?”

“That was a matter demanding most careful consideration. Cal settled back in his bateau, and did some swift thinking. He could easily have picked off the bandits with his rifle, had that been his desire. At least he could have gotten the two in the first boat that way, and probably captured the remaining two. But Calhoun was never a man to shoot unless it became absolutely necessary. It was not his nature to do so. Furthermore, the Government wants its culprits taken alive. An officer who has to kill his man to get him does not last long in the service. He is dropped, and should be. Calhoun kept his gun in its holster, and used his head.

“They are making for the Mississippi,” he argued. “Of that I am certain, because there is nowhere else they could be headed. Now, if I follow them until the Big River is reached I will have the aid of the officers of the boat they select to escape on. That, if I have luck. On the other hand, they may give me the slip, since I will necessarily have to remain at least an hour behind them. A boat may be just in the act of clearing when they arrive. If so, good-by. They looked fresh enough this morning, so they probably slept a good part of last night, and will go far to-day. Half the distance, probably. So I’ve got to-day, to-night and to-morrow in which to think up a scheme that will work.” He looked off through the timber to where dry land showed. “A bit of breakfast will help the thinking along,” he decided, and struck out for the shore.

While he cooked and ate breakfast he continued to canvas the meager possibilities the situation presented. When he took to the river again the problem had narrowed down to this:

“I’ll follow an hour behind, then when the Mississippi is near I’ll crowd them as closely as I can with safety,” he decided. “I’ve got to get there right on their heels, that’s certain. Morgan’s wood yard will probably have a steamer or two taking on fuel, and a steamer is their only chance. If they get aboard and away before I can stop them I’ll follow in a motor boat — commandeer a steam boat if I have to. Anyhow, Wheeler has said that one good man working on the side of the law is more than a match for a dozen crooks — and I’m not going to be the one to make him eat his words!”