The Way of the Mississippi/Chapter 10

ENTON RILLARD was shocked immeasurably to find that even down on old Mississip' he could meet one of his own people. This Toskin had shown a lot of good sense working on advertisements. His ambition had been for special studies, and the advertisements had paid his way. Probably he was living on Rillard's money now. The thing was ridiculous, but as he thought about the matter, Rillard say how easy it had been that he should meet the young man down the Mississippi. Away back yonder, Rillard had felt the subtle appeal of wide-flowing waters, as indicated by Toskin's real art in backgrounds of the product's display type.

The elder adventuring man felt a pang as he realized that he was now old, that he had no business, no excuse, for this flight of his into the romantic sequences of youth and recklessness. Long since his own life had shaped its course.

"I'm a fool," he whispered in his heart. "Even in my temptation I called the girl Corilla. Lord, I'm a fool!"

He glared into the opaque waters of old Mississip' and heard the coiling eddies chuckle as they flowed along. He thought at first to blame the river for his own slipping. On second thought he saw the truth. The river had brought young Jerald Toskin down for the girl to find and bring to Montgomery Chute. And the boy, a mere stripling of twenty odd and of the girl's own age, had given her his boat, gentleman that he was, to relieve her in the embarrassing predicament in which the loss of her mother, destruction of her boat and his own position as host had left her.

There was a pang in his heart. He was old. Gray was in his hair. With youth he could not now compete. He knew how kind the river had been to him when it granted him that pretty kiss at a moment when he was lonely, but how quickly Mad Tom had come to remind him of his folly!

He was sure the girl laughed at him. What did a kiss mean to so young a person, anyhow? She just plagued him with mockery. But the girl was not plaguing Toskin. Her eyes had been all for the youth! Well, they ought to be; in his day Rillard had been specially favored. His smile changed as he thought of Corilla. Lordy, but there had been a girl in her day! Yes, indeed! For that matter, she was yet.

"Go on, Dent!" his wife had urged him when his tongue tied up at the thought of being able to trip down the rivers. She knew him; she was probably laughing at the romantic ideas in his heart, knowing them well.

"Next time—we'll go together," he said with sudden puzzlement. "Sure! I'll bet she'd go and have as much fun—if I'd go about it right."

So there he began to lay plans, scheming to make his wife see his light, and come romancing with him, somewhere away out yonder. Corilla had been a good sport; she was trim and swagger yet. She had seen clear through him, and let him have his fling.

He drew up in a bit of hauteur toward the old Mississip', regarding the flood of muddy gold and all its people with a kind contempt, only to hear the eddy chuckle and to remember the thrill of the strange, unexpected, irresistible kiss, which would lie warm and taunting on his conscience forever more—a lone monument on the grave of his temptations.

In his heart he gave over to Toskin, taking a bit of self-congratulation as a man might, at his self-abnegation. From that hour he saw the distraught thoughtfulness of the young man dreaming of the girl whose river way and feminine beauty had caught up his heart. They went together down the river, Rillard playing the skipper for the lover. The old man owed it to the girl to see that she should be forever cared for, now that on his carelessness rested the tragic consequence of the river wreck. The girl might never forgive that. She ought not to.

At Arkansaw City she had left letters for Toskin, one mailed the morning of her arrival, the other the morning of her departure. He did not show them to Rillard. He merely said it was her hurry to see about her mother's property in Vicksburg and New Orleans. She couldn't wait. Yet she had urged that he follow her.

"I'll run you down," Rillard said, adding; "She's a fine girl, Toskin. She's educated—and wise, too."

"I know." Toskin nodded. "But she don't think much of—of up-the-bankers!"

"Don't let that worry you," Rillard exclaimed. "There's one softpaw she thinks a lot about, I know."

"You—you think?" Toskin turned wonderingly.

"I know," the man laughed, giving the motor a bit more gas to gain speed on the current another mile an hour against the rising south wind.

Thus they ran into Lake Providence Reach and overtook Dona, who was trying to buck the wind, but it was too rough, even to tow behind the Jungle. They ran in on her suggestion to have a goose hunt, And they sat down to a wonderful goose supper. Dona having a great bird which she had shot the day before.

Rillard would have remained clear of the supper had not Dona insisted on his presence. This was the second evening there. By signs the old man knew the youngsters were agreed. He tried mightily to act surprised when Dona told him tot she and Toskin were going to marry at Vicksburg.

"Fine!" he cried. "That's fine!"

The supper eaten, clear to the pumpkin pie, Rillard said he would be going. The two urged him not to so soon but he smiled.

"I'll take the tender over," he said.

"I'll come over in her boat," Toskin declared confidantly [sic].

"You might ask me" she exclaimed, and all laughed.

Rillard opened the door to step out on the bow platform. As the light flashed from the oil lamp gas burner, he blinked out into the darkness thus illumined over the sand bar. As he did so he saw a greenish-purple flare straight ahead of him close to the sand, where a log was lying on the ground.

The man knew that flash. It was a pair of eyes. He had seen game by fire light jacked—deer, coons, possum and even a wildcat's eyes, so he knew this was some animal out there in the darkness of the gale. Some look in those eyes startled the man into instant action. He felt their menace, and he knew the vacancy of the bar—no legitimate thing would be thus lying out watching the shanty boat.

He drew Dona's revolver from the Cheyenne holster, and with the swift leap of long-practiced, boyish play-shooting, he leveled the weapon and on the instant fired. It was instinctive impulse. It was, too, more than this—the habitual alertness that one comes to have when old Mississip' is in a mood to instruct its children in watchfulness.

As he fired there was the crash and flare of a gun out there in the night. A charge of shot slammed past them.

"Ouch!" Rillard exclaimed, and dashed toward the bushwhacker, firing as he ran. Dona caught up a rifle from the corner of the cabin, and Toskin took it as he, too, ran to back up Rillard. The girl closed the door.

"All right!" Rillard cried as he threw a flashlight beam on the ground behind the drifting. "I got him!"

Every advantage had been with Mad Tom Maiton. He had figured it all out with meticulous care. One thing alone had escaped his attention—was the fact that his own eyes would flare brightly in the dark when the boat door opened. He had waited to shoot the two men, but as he glared the fire of his eyes had betrayed him.

"Good Lord, it's a man!" Rillard cried over and over again, and then he added; "I've killed a man! I've killed a man!"

"And a good job of it!" the river girl choked. "He 'lowed to bushwhack us all. Lawse! What shooting! Plumb center in the haid!"

She discovered a trickle of blood on Rillard's face. One of the high-thrown shots had grazed his scalp, parting his hair.

"We better pull right out!" Dona exclaimed.

"No." Rillard shook his head. "I won't run on a thing like this. We'll have to find the coroner or sheriff—authorities!"

"Yes, that's best!" Toskin nodded.

"Probably they'd catch us if we run, too," Dona added.

In the morning they found the river rat's launch, and Rillard, accompanied by Toskin, went down to town, where they told a deputy, and through him reached the sheriff and coroner. The three, and a posse, went up to the scene of the tragedy.

"Sho!" Sheriff Gorton exclaimed. "I know that scoundrel! I had him six years ago, when I was deputy, for entering and robbing. He broke jail. That man needed killin', he did! 'Course we'll inquest 'im, but I expect he'd better be'n killed long since! You're shore lucky, Mr. Man, that charge of buckshot didn't come three inches lower—yes, indeed!"

The two witnesses testified at the coroner's inquest. Mad Tom Maiton had tried to commit crime, tried to kill Rillard, and meant no good toward either Dona or Toskin.

The coroner's jury brought in a verdict of justifiable homicide, with which the prosecutor concurred. Rillard, trembling, and with tears in his eyes thanked them all. Old Mississip' had overwhelmed him with its menace. He had thought the eyes were a wildcat's when he fired, but he let it go that he had fought a duel with a man—and won.

"I'm leaving the river," he told the two when they were back on their boats. "Here's where I quit. Toskin, I'm leaving the Jungle in your charge. I haven't any confidence in that blamed Mendova murder boat. I'm not superstitious, but I've had experience! You take the Jungle—you and Dona, here. Burn that blamed shanty boat!"

"es—but—" Toskin hesitated, glancing at Dona.

"Well," she smiled, "we don't have to go clear to Vicksburg—right down below is Lake Providence—I expect—"

"Fine!" Rillard declared. "Clear out that old shanty boat."

They carried the outfit, equipment, and other useful things on board the Jungle. They gave the furniture to darkies who were up the bank, and even offered them the shanty boat, but they wouldn't have it. A half gallon of kerosene in the cabin, and a wadded up newspaper set on fire thrown into the splash started the flames. The boat swung down the river, and smoking dark, burned itself out within five miles.

In the meanwhile the Jungle tripped on down to Lake Providence. They sparred off at the eddy below the steamboat warehouse and went uptown. The justice of the peace was right glad to welcome them. He sure was glad when these shanty boaters came to town a-marrying. According to his judgment, and generally speaking, they all ought to get married. Personally, he was just plumb glad to 'commodate couples.

Rillard was sure the justice had said it just the way it ought to be. He hesitated when the bride turned to him expectantly.

"I wish you all the happiness in the world," he said, kissing her, and when he saw the Jungle beyond as they went over the levee he added: "Now, Dona, this man of yours has talent and ability, even some reputation. Don't you let him waste them! He's an artist, you know, and he mustn't be wasted. The world needs him—"

"I've two half hitches and a line bite on him," she laughed, "and when I tie in, 'tisn't to a willow stake, but good ash! We'll bring the Jungle home come spring. When we come we'll sure know what's what—"

"Good luck!" Rillard called, throwing the last line to the girl as the Jungle edged clear of the eddy.

She laughed as she threw him an old man's kiss.