Straight ahead, shooting up rugged and sharp in
the red light of the day's end, were two islands. Between these, three
miles away, the sloop _Typhoon_ was strongly silhouetted in the fading
glow. Beyond the islands and the sloop there were no other objects for
Captain Plum's eyes to rest upon. So far as he could see there was no
other sail. At his back he was shut in by a dense growth of trees and
creeping vines, and unless a small boat edged close in around the end
of Beaver Island his place of concealment must remain undiscovered. At
least this seemed an assured fact to Captain Plum.
In the security of his position he began to whistle softly as he beat
the bowl of his pipe on his boot-heel to empty it of ashes. Then he drew
a long-barreled revolver from under a coat that he had thrown aside and
examined it carefully to see that the powder and ball were in solid and
that none of the caps was missing. From the same place he brought forth
a belt, buckled it round his waist, shoved the revolver into its
holster, and dragging the coat to him, fished out a letter from an
inside pocket. It was a dirty, much worn letter. Perhaps he had read it
a score of times. He read it again now, and then, refilling his pipe,
settled back against the rock that formed a rest for his shoulders and
turned his eyes in the direction of the sloop.
The last rim of the sun had fallen below the Michigan wilderness and in
the rapidly increasing gloom the sloop was becoming indistinguishable.
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