Carline ascended into the world again. It was a painful ascent, and when
he looked around him, he recognized the interior of his motorboat cabin,
heard and felt the throbbing of his motor, and discovered aches and
pains that made his extremities tingle. He sat up, but the blackness
that seemed to rise around him caused him to fall hastily back upon the
stateroom bunk.
He remembered his discovery of his own firearms on the shanty-boat, and
fear assailed him. He remembered his folly in crying out that those were
his guns. He might have known he had fallen among thieves. He cursed
himself, and dread of what might yet follow his indiscretion made him
whimper with terror. A most disgusting odour of whiskey was in his
nostrils, and his throat was like a corrugated iron pipe partly filled
with soot.
The door of the tiny stateroom was closed, but the two ports were open
to let the air in. It occurred to him that he might be a captive, and
would be held for ransom. Perhaps the pirates would bleed him for
$50,000; perhaps they would take all his fortune! He began to cry and
sob. They might cut his throat, and not give him any chance of escape.
He had heard of men having had their throats cut down the river.
He tried to sit up again, and succeeded without undue faintness. He
could not wait, but must know his fate immediately. He found the door
was unlocked, and when he slipped out into the cabin, he found that
there was only one man on board, the steersman, who was sitting in the
engine pit, and steering with the rail wheel instead of the bow-cabin
one.
He peered out, and found that it was Terabon, who discovered him and
hailed him, cheerily:
"How are you feeling?"
"Tough--my head!"
"You're lucky to be alive!" Terabon said. "You got in with a crew of
river pirates, but they let me have you. Did they leave you anything?"
"Leave me anything!" Carline repeated, feeling in his pockets. "I've got
my watch, and here's----"
He opened up his change pocketbook. There were six or seven dollars in
change and two or three wadded bills. When he looked for his main
supply, however, there was a difference. The money was all gone. He was
stripped to the last dollar in his money belt and of his hidden
resources.
"They did me!" he choked. "They got all I had!"
"They didn't kill you," Terabon said. "You're lucky. How did they bang
you and knock you out?"
"Why, I found they had my guns on board----"
"And you accused them?"
"No! I just said they were mine, I was surprised!"
"Then?"
"My light went out."
"When did they get your guns?"
"I woke up, up there, and you were gone. My guns and pocket money were
gone, too. I thought----"
"You thought I'd robbed you?"
"Ye----Well, I didn't know!"
"This is a devil of a river, old man!" said Terabon. "I guess you
travelled with the real thing out of New Madrid----"
"Doss, Renald Doss. He said he was a sportsman----"
"Oh, he is, all right, he's a familiar type here on the river. He's the
kind of a sport who hunts men, Up-the-Bankers and game of that kind.
He's a very successful hunter, too----"
"He said we'd hunt wild geese. We went up Obion River, and had lots of
fun, and he said he'd help--he'd help----"
"Find your wife?"
"Yes, sir."
Carline was abject. Terabon, however, was caught wordless. This man was
the husband of the woman for whose sake he had ventured among the
desperate river rats, and now he realized that he had succeeded in the
task she had set him. Looking back, he was surprised at the ease of its
accomplishment, but he was under no illusions regarding the jeopardy he
had run. He had trusted to his aloofness, his place as a newspaper man,
and his frankness, to rescue Carline, and he had brought him away.
"You're all righ now," Terabon suggested. "I guess you've had your
lesson."
"A whole book full of them!" Carline cried. "I owe you something--an
apology, and my thanks! Where are we going?"
"I was taking you down to a Memphis hospital, or to Mendova----"
"I don't need any hospital. I'm broke; I must get some money. We'll go
to Mendova. I know some people there. I've heard it was a great old
town, too! I always wanted to see it."
Terabon looked at him; Carline had learned nothing. For a minute remorse
and comprehension had flickered in his mind, now he looked ahead to a
good time in Mendova, to sight-seeing, sporting around, genial friends,
and all the rest. Argument would do no good, and Terabon retreated from
his position as friend and helper to that of an observer and a recorder
of facts. Whatever pity he might feel, he could not help but perceive
that there was no use trying to help fools.
It was just dusk when they ran into Mendova. The city lights sparkled as
they turned in the eddy and ran up to the shanty-boat town. They dropped
an anchor into the deep water and held the boat off the bank by the
stern while they ran a line up to a six-inch willow to keep the bow to
the bank. The springy, ten-foot gangplank bridged the gap to the shore.
More than thirty shanty-boats and gasolene cruisers were moored along
that bank, and from nearly every one peered sharp eyes, taking a look at
the newcomers.
"Hello, Terabon!" someone hailed, and the newspaper man turned,
surprised. One never does get over that feeling of astonishment when,
fifteen hundred miles or so from home, a familiar voice calls one's name
in greeting.
"Hello!" Terabon replied, heartily, and then shook hands with a market
hunter he had met for an hour's gossip in the eddy at St. Louis. "Any
luck, Bill? How's Frank?"
"Averaging fine," was the answer. "Frank's up town. Going clear down
after all, eh?"
"Probably."
"Any birds on Yankee Bar?"
"I saw some geese there--hunters stopped in, too. How is the flight?"
"We're near the tail of it; mostly they've all gone down. We're going to
drive for it, and put out our decoys down around Big Island and below."
"Then I'll likely see you down there."
"Sure thing; here's Frank."
Terabon shook hands with the two, introduced Carline, and then the
hunters cast off and steered away down the stream. They had come more
than a thousand miles with the migrating ducks and geese, intercepting
them at resting or feeding places. That touch and go impressed Terabon
as much as anything he had ever experienced.
He went up town with Carline, who found a cotton broker, a timber
merchant, and others who knew him. It was easy to draw a check, have it
cashed, and Carline once more had ready money. Nothing would do but they
must go around to Palura's to see Mendova's great attraction for
travellers.
Palura supplied entertainment and excitement for the whole community,
and this happened to be one of his nights of special effort. Personally,
Palura was in a temper. Captain Dalkard, of the Mendova Police, had been
caught between the Citizens' Committee and Palura's frequenters. There
were 100 citizens in the committee, and Palura's frequenters were
unnamed, but familiar enough in local affairs.
The cotton broker thought it was a good joke, and he explained the whole
situation to Terabon and Carline for their entertainment.
"Dalkard called in Policeman Laddam and told him to stand in front of
Palura's, and tell people to watch out. You see, there's been a lot of
complaints about people being short changed, having their pockets
picked, and getting doped there, and some people think it doesn't do the
town any good. Some think we got to have Palura's for the sake of the
town's business. I'm neutral, but I like to watch the fun. We'll go down
there and look in to-night."
They had dinner, and about 9 o'clock they went around to Palura's. It
was an old market building made over into a pleasure resort, and it
filled 300 feet front on Jimpson Street and 160 feet on the flanking
side streets. A bright electric sign covered the front with a flare of
yellow lights and there was one entrance, under the sign.
As Terabon, Carline, and the cotton broker came along, they saw a tall,
broad-shouldered, smooth-shaven policeman in uniform standing where the
lights showed him up.
"Watch your pocketbooks!" the policeman called softly to the patrons.
"Watch your change; pickpockets, short-changers, and card-stackers work
the unwary here! Keep sober--look out for knock-out drops!"
He said it over and over again, in a purring, jeering tone, and Terabon
noticed that he was poised and tense. In the shadows on both sides of
the policeman Terabon detected figures lurking and he was thrilled by
the evident fact that one brave policeman had been sent alone into that
deadly peril to confront a desperate gang of crooks, and that the lone
policeman gloried to be there.
The cotton broker, neutral that he was, whispered as they disregarded
the warnings: "Laddam cleaned up Front Street in six months; the mob has
all come up here, and this is their last stand. It'll hurt business if
they close this joint up, because the town'll be dead, but I wish
Palura'd kind of ease down a bit. He's getting rough."
Little hallways and corridors led into dark recesses on either side of
the building, and faint lights of different colours showed the way to
certain things. Terabon saw a wonderfully beautiful woman, in furs, with
sparkling diamonds, and of inimitable grace waiting in a little
half-curtained cubby hole; he heard a man ask for "Pete," and caught the
word "game" twice. The sounds were muffled, and a sense of repression
and expectancy permeated the whole establishment.
They entered a reception room, with little tables around the sides,
music blaring and blatant, a wide dancing floor, and a scurrying throng.
All kinds were there: spectators who were sight-seeing; participants who
were sporting around; men, women, and scoundrels; thugs and their
prospective victims; people of supposed allurement; and sports of
insipid, silly pose and tricked-up conspicuousness.
Terabon's gaze swept the throng. Noise and merriment were increasing.
Liquor was working on the patrons. The life of Mendova was stirring to
blaring music. The big hall was bare, rough, and gaunt. Dusty flags and
cobwebs dangled from the rafters and hog-chain braces. A few hard, white
lights cast a blinding glare straight down on the heads of the dancers
and drinkers and onlookers.
Business was brisk, and shouts of "Want the waiter!" indicated the
insistence with which trade was encouraged and even insisted upon. No
sooner had Terabon and his companions seated themselves than a burly
flat-face with a stained white apron came and inflicted his determined
gaze upon them. He sniffed when Terabon ordered plain soda.
"We got a man's drink."
"I'm on the water wagon for awhile," Terabon smiled, and the waiter
nodded, sympathetically. A tip of a quarter mollified his air of surly
expectancy completely, and as he put the glasses down he said:
"The Boss is sick the way he's bein' treated. They ain't goin' to git
away wit' stickin' a bull in front of his door like he was a crook."
Terabon heard a woman at a near-by table making her protest against the
policeman out in front. No other topic was more than mentioned, and the
buzz and burr of voices vied with the sound of the band till it ended.
Then there was a hush.
"Palura!" a whisper rippled in all directions.
Terabon saw a man about 5 feet 10 inches tall, compactly built, square
shouldered, and just a trifle pursy at the waist line, approaching along
the dancing floor. He was light on his small feet, his shoulders worked
with feline grace, but his face was a face as hard as limestone and of
about the same colour--bluish gray. His eyes were the colour of ice,
with a greenish tinge. Smooth-shaven cheeks, close-cropped hair,
wing-like ears, and a little round head were details of a figure that
might have been heroic--for his jaw was square, his nose large, and his
forehead straight and broad.
Everyone knew he was going out to throw the policeman, Laddam, into the
street. The policeman had not hurt business a pennyworth as yet, but
Palura felt the insult. Palura knew the consequences of failing to meet
the challenge.
"Give 'im hell!" someone called.
Palura turned and nodded, and a little yelping cheer went up, which
ceased instantly. Terabon, observing details, saw that Palura's coat
sagged on the near side--in the shape of an automatic pistol. He saw,
too, that the man's left sleeve sagged round and hard--a slingshot or
black-jack.
There was no delay; Palura went straight through to his purpose. He
disappeared in the dark and narrow entrance way and not a sound was
audible except the scuffling of feet.
"Palura's killed four men," the cotton broker whispered to Terabon,
under his breath.
What seemed an age passed. The lights flickered. Terabon looked about in
alarm lest that gang----
A crash outside brought all to their feet, and the whole crowd fell back
against the walls. Out of the corridor surged a mass of men, and among
them stalked a stalwart giant of a man draped with the remnants of a
policeman's uniform. He had in his right hand a club which he was
swinging about him, and every six feet a man dropped upon the floor.
Terabon saw Palura writhing, twisting, and working his way among the
fighting mass. He heard a sharp bark:
"Back, boys!"
Four or five men stumbled back and two rolled out of the way of the feet
of the policeman. It flashed to Terabon what had been done. They had
succeeded in getting the policeman into the huge den of vice, where he
could not legally be without a warrant, where Palura could kill him and
escape once more on the specious plea of self-defence. Terabon saw the
grin of perfect hate on Palura's face as both his hands came up with
automatics in them--a two-handed gunman with his prey.
This would teach the policemen of Mendova to mind their own business!
Suddenly Policeman Laddam threw his night stick backhanded at the
infamous scoundrel, and Palura dodged, but not quite quickly nor quite
far enough. The club whacked noisily against his right elbow and Palura
uttered a cry of pain as one pistol fell to the floor.
Then Laddam snatched out his own automatic, a 45-calibre gun, three
pounds or more in weight, and began to shoot, calmly, deliberately, and
with the artistic appreciation of doing a good job thoroughly.
His first bullet drove Palura straight up, erect; his next carried the
bully back three steps; his next whirled him around in a sagging spiral,
and the fourth dropped the dive keeper like a bag of loose potatoes.
Laddam looked around curiously. He had never been there before. Lined up
on all sides of him were the waiters, bouncers, men of prey, their
faces ghastly, and three or four of them sick. The silent throng around
the walls stared at the scene from the partial shadows; no one seemed
even to be breathing. Then Palura made a horrible gulping sound, and
writhed as he gave up his last gasp of life.
"Now then!" Laddam looked about him, and his voice was the low roar of a
man at his kill. "You men pick them up, pack them outside there, and up
to headquarters. March!"
As one man, the men who had been Palura's marched. They gathered up the
remains of Palura and the men with broken skulls, and carried them out
into the street. The crowd followed, men and women both. But outside,
the hundreds scurried away in all directions, men afraid and women
choking with horror. Terabon's friend the cotton broker fled with the
rest, Carline disappeared, but Terabon went to headquarters, writing in
his pocket notebook the details of this rare and wonderful tragedy.
Policeman Laddam had single-handed charged and captured the last citadel
of Mendova vice, and the other policemen, when they looked at him, wore
expressions of wonder and bewilderment. They knew the Committee of 100
would make him their next chief and a man under whom it would be a
credit to be a cop.
Terabon, just before dawn, returned toward Mousa Slough. As he did so,
from a dull corner a whisper greeted him:
"Say, Terabon, is it straight, Palura killed up?"
"Sure thing!"
"Then Mendova's sure gone to hell!" Hilt Despard the river pirate cried.
"Say, Terabon, there's a lady down by the slough wants to get to talk to
you."
"Who----?"
"She just dropped in to-night, Nelia Crele! She's into her boat down at
the head of the sandbar, facing the switch willows. There's a little
gasolene sternwheeler next below her boat."
"She's dropped in? All right, boys, much obliged!"
They separated.
But when Terabon searched along the slough for Nelia's boat he did not
find it, and to his amazed anger he found that the gasolene boat in
which he had arrived was also gone, as well as his own skiff and all his
outfit.
"Darn this river!" he choked. "But that's a great story I sent of the
killing of Palura!"