As it was, he fended off some dark blot
bobbing through the water, his palm meeting it with a force that jarred
his bones.
But he did make the mouth of the swamp-stream. Switching on the strong
search-light in the bow, he headed on. And because he was moving now
against the current, it seemed that he lost two feet for every one that
he advanced.
The muddy water was whipped into foam where it tore around shrub and
willow. There were no longer any confining banks, only a waste of water
glittering through the dark foliage. The drear habitat of the vultures
was being swept bare by the scouring of the incoming streams, but its
moldy stench still arose stronger than ever, as if some foulness were
being stirred up from its ancient bed.
It was only by chance that Val found the drying rack which marked the
boundary of Jeems' property. Here the land was higher than the flood,
which had not yet spread inland. He tied the boat to a willow and
splashed ashore. In the lower portions of the path his feet sank into
patches of wet. Something which might have been--and probably was--a
snake oozed away from the beam of his pocket torch.
The clearing was much as it had been, save that the door of the
chicken-run stood ajar and its feathered population was gone. But under
the cabin Val saw the betraying sparkle of water. The bayou in the rear
must have topped flood level.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191