Close-hung with the forest walls, the bayou itself was indiscernible in the blackness.

Marette guided him now, though Kent walked ahead of her, holding firmly to her hand.
Unless Fingers had changed its location, the scow should be somewhere within forty or fifty paces of the end of the trail.

It was small, a two-man scow, with a tight little house built amidships.

And it was tied close up against the shore.

Marette told him this as they felt their way through brush and reeds.