I swam slowly ashore, creeping up the low bank into the seclusion of a shallow, sandy gully, scooped out by the late rains.  The air was mild, and I experienced no chill from my wet clothes, the warmth of the sand helping to dry them on my body.  The river and sky were darkening fast, the more brilliant stars already visible.  The western shore had entirely vanished, while nothing remained in evidence of those department boats except the dense black smoke smudge still outlined against the lighter arch of sky overhead.  To my left the camp fires of the soldiers still remaining at Yellow Banks began to show red with flame through the shadows of intervening trees, and I could hear the noise of hammering, together with an occasional strident voice.  Immediately about me all was silent, the steadily deepening gloom rendering my surroundings vaguely indistinct.

Thus far I possessed no plan—­except to seek her.  How this was to be accomplished appeared in no way clear.  I lay there, my mind busy with the perplexing problem.  Where could Kirby go, now that he was ashore?  How could he hope to find concealment in the midst of that rough camp? that little, squalid frontier settlement of a few log huts?  Could it be possible that he had friends there—­old cronies to whom he might venture to appeal for shelter, and protection? men of his own kidney to whom he could confide his secret?  As the thought occurred to me it seemed quite possible; indeed it scarcely appeared probable that he would, under any other circumstances, have made the choice he did.

Surely such a man could never have risked going ashore unless some definite plan of action had already formulated itself in his mind.  And why should the fellow not possess friends at Yellow Banks?  He knew the river intimately and all the river towns; possibly he had even landed here before.  He was a man feared, hated, but obeyed the full length of the great stream; his name stood for reckless daring, unscrupulous courage everywhere; he could command the admiration and loyalty of every vicious character in the steamboat service between Fort Crawford and New Orleans.  It was hardly likely that none of these men, floaters at best, were in this miscellaneous outpouring of militia; indeed it was almost certain there would be some officers among them, as well as enlisted men.

As my thought grasped these facts, they led to the only possible decision.  I would venture forward, rather blindly trusting that good fortune might direct my steps aright.  I would have to discover first of all, where Kirby had taken Eloise—­into whose hands he had deposited the girl for safe keeping.  This task ought not to be difficult.  The settlement was small, and the camp itself not a large one; no such party could hope to enter its confines without attracting attention, and causing comment.  There was but slight discipline, and the majority of the soldiery were simple-hearted, honest fellows who could