For this was many times
worse than his fight against the swamp-stream.
Twice the engine sputtered protestingly and Val thought of trying to
leap ashore. But stubbornly the outboard fought on. If there ever were a
sturdy ship, fit to be named with Columbus' gallant craft or Hudson's
vessel, it was that frail outboard which buffeted the rising waters of a
Louisiana bayou gone flood mad.
It achieved the impossible; it crept upstream inch by inch, escaping
disaster after disaster by the thinness of a dime. Since he had
apparently not been born to drown, Val thought as he saw his headlight
touch the tip of the landing, he would doubtless depart this life by
hanging.
Then his light picked out something else which lay between him and the
landing. The sleek, knife-bowed cruiser certainly did not belong to
Pirate's Haven. And what neighbor would come calling by water on such a
night? It was moored by two thick ropes to a sunken post, and already
the mooring was dragging the bow down. Val headed in toward it, running
the outboard between the stranger and the landing.
Out of the blackness ashore a shadow arose and waved at him frenziedly.
Then he saw Ricky's white face above her long oil-silk cape. Her hair
was plastered tight to her skull and she was protecting her eyes from
the fury of the rain with her hands.
Val sent the boat inshore until it bit into the crumbling surface of the
levee with a shock which threatened his balance.
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