They were peeling potatoes for the noon meal on the fourth day of the
flatboat’s voyage when Tad chanced to look off to the southward and
stood up suddenly, with an exclamation of wonder. Above the Kentucky
bluffs a cloud was rising swiftly--a living cloud of beating wings.
“Pigeons!” said Abe. And Allen, springing to his feet, ran back under
the shelter to get his fowling-piece.
The great flight of birds came swiftly. Before Allen could finish
loading the long-barreled shotgun, the first of them were winging
over--twos and threes and fifties, and then thousands--so many that
they seemed to cover the sky. A vast, vibrating hum of wings filled the
air.
Allen rammed home his charge and lifted the gun. Taking aim was hardly
necessary. He pointed where the flock seemed thickest and fired. At the
loud report a sort of eddying movement went through the nearer part of
the cloud of birds, but there was no change in the speed or direction
of the flight.
Then bodies of dead and wounded pigeons began dropping like feathered
hailstones into the river. They sent up little splashes of water. There
must have been a dozen at least.
Only one pigeon fell aboard the _Katy Roby_. Tad picked up the
warm, plump body and held it, watching the eyes glaze. The sleek
brownish-gray feathers were ruffled, and a shot had carried away part
of the long tail.
Allen was grumbling. “One pigeon! I hit plenty, but they all fell
in the water. We’d oughter have a dog along to fetch ’em.” He was
reloading rapidly while he talked, and raised the gun again, looking
for the likeliest place to shoot.
Abe’s voice came from the bows.
“Don’t kill any more of ’em, Allen,” he said with something like a
command in his tone. “Spose’n you _should_ git one or two more to fall
in the boat. It takes more’n three pigeons to make a meal for this
crew. You ain’t jest shootin’ ’em for the fun of it, are you?”
“Well, why not?” replied young Gentry with a scowl. “Thar’s millions
an’ millions. Look at ’em!” He waved his arm in a wide arc. “They’re so
thick they’re ’most a nuisance.”
“No, sir,” Abe answered. “They never harm crops, do they? An’ they’re
pretty, an’ hev a right to live. They’re bein’ killed off too fast as
it is. My Pap says when he was a boy in Kaintuck’ there used to be
four or five flights every year when the pigeons would make the sun
dark for a whole day. You don’t see that now. This flock here is ’most
over now. That’s what comes o’ killin’ ’em by the bushel jest for the
sport of it.”
Even as he spoke, the rear guard of the flock swept over, leaving the
sky clear once more. The dark cloud of beating wings drew away rapidly
to the north, and in a moment the only traces of the event were the
stiffening body in Tad’s hand and the acrid smell of burnt powder as
Allen sulkily set about cleaning his gun.
When dinner was over, the long-legged backwoods boy rose, stretched and
climbed to the forward deck. Before picking up the oars he shaded his
eyes with his hand and looked away south-westward.
“Boys,” he said, “unless I’m mighty mistook, we’ll pass Cairo an’ be
sailin’ down the Mississippi before night.”
“Huh,” snorted Allen, “what do _you_ know ’bout it? This ain’t the
headwaters o’ Little Pigeon Creek ye’re a-navigatin’!”
“Reckon I’m as wise an ol’ barnacle as any aboard this packet,” Abe
replied with a twinkle. “Whar do _you_ figger us to be, Cap’n Gentry?”
“Wal, le’s see, now,” said Allen. “We sighted Paducah jes’ before noon.
Now I fergit how many miles it is from thar, but seems like they told
me it was a full day’s run, that time I was down thar I told ye about.”
The argument went on spasmodically for the balance of the afternoon.
But Abe, as usual, was right.
An hour after sunset, in the calm blue dusk, they floated out of the
Ohio with the broad current of the Mississippi sweeping down in a
resistless muddy tide from the northwest. They knew the power of that
flood a moment later when another broadhorn, just below them, was
caught in an eddy and whirled end for end like a twig in a brook.
Abe pulled with might and main on the starboard oar, and Allen swung
the steering-sweep to bring them over toward the Kentucky shore. “We
might’s well stay this side whar it ain’t so yaller, long as we kin,”
said the big bow-oarsman. “I feel sort o’ more at home in water that
might ha’ come down from Little Pigeon.”
They tied up to the Kentucky bank while it was still light enough to
find a good mooring-place. Not much singing or hilarity aboard that
night. Something of the vast, brooding mystery of the river had
got into them. Tad didn’t feel afraid, or even lonesome, exactly.
He just wasn’t in a mood for talking. The immense distances, the
wildness of the country, the hurrying, watery sounds of the mile-wide
flood--perhaps it was none of these, or all of them combined, that
weighed down their spirits.
“Spooky, ain’t it?” said Allen, shaking himself uneasily, and he went
to his blankets without taking out the banjo.
Tad followed soon and left Abe sitting hunched in dark silhouette
against the stars, his big hands gripped around his knees and his eyes
on the shadowy line of willows and cottonwoods across the river. He was
used to spells of sadness. This one seemed no worse than usual.
Morning made a difference. The sun shone on budding leaves of tender
green and sparkled on the dimpling surface of the water. A perfect
riot of bird-song filled the air. In the big trees that overhung the
mooring-place there must have been hundreds of warblers, finches and
song-sparrows, and several times Tad caught the red flash of a cardinal
among the branches.
Allen sang and Tad whistled intermittently while they cooked and ate
breakfast, and even Abe hummed something that might have been “Turkey
in the Straw” and danced a home-made double shuffle on the fore deck,
as he cast off.
“Make the most of it, boys,” he laughed. “This is all the Spring we’re
a-goin’ to see. By day after tomorrer we’ll ketch up with Summer, at
this rate.”
The sun was warm enough that day to give truth to the tall boy’s words.
They passed islands where the dogwood, at the height of its bloom, made
a white canopy almost to the water’s edge. And in fields along the
shore there were bare-footed children running about in calico frocks.
The river did not seem lonesome in daylight. Above and below them they
could see busy specks that were keel-boats and barges. They overtook
one of these toward noon--a shabby old trading-scow. On its after part
was built a little house, or “caboose,” from which a length of rusty
stove-pipe projected. And a dingy bit of what had once been bright
cotton print waved in tatters at the top of a pole. Despite the forlorn
appearance of the craft, cheerful sounds came from it, as the Indiana
flatboat drew alongside.
A squat, broad-shouldered old man with a bushy gray beard and merry
eyes was sitting on a box, forward of the caboose, scraping away
lustily at a backwoods fiddle, and thumping time with one foot on
the deck. And sitting facing him, apparently entranced by the hoarse
squeaking of the fiddle, was a fine red setter dog.
The old fellow finished his tune with a flourish and swung about on his
box.
“Howdy, boys!” he cried. “I’m Moses Magoon o’ the Big Sandy, peaceful
trader an’ musician by choice, but a bad ’un when raised. Mebbe you’ve
heard o’ these half-horse, half-alligator fellers. I’m one-third
horse, one-third alligator, an’ the other third mixed catamount an’
copperhead. What d’ye find yerselves in need of today? I’ve got calico,
buttons an’ sewin’ thread, extra fine pantaloons, shoe leather an’
wheaten flour, pots an’ pans, powder an’ lead, candles, salt, nutmegs,
an’ red pepper.”
All this had been said in a loud, hearty voice and without any apparent
pause for breath. Mr. Magoon was about to continue when Abe interrupted
by laying an oar across the bow of the trading-boat and pulling the two
craft together, side by side. This maneuver was not to the liking of
the setter, which jumped up, growling, teeth bared for action.
“Be still, Fanny,” said the old man quietly. With a dexterous motion he
pulled an old-fashioned horse pistol out of the box beneath him and
laid it across his knees. At the sight of this weapon, fully eighteen
inches long, Abe’s jaw dropped comically.
[Illustration: HE PULLED A PISTOL OUT OF THE BOX]
“Hol’ on!” he exclaimed, and hastily withdrew the foot he was about to
set aboard the scow. “’Pears like we’d better introduce _our_selves,
too. We’re the law-abidin’est, softest-spoke flatboat crew betwixt
this an’ the Falls o’ the Ohio. We’re two-thirds fishin’ worm an’
three-quarters turtle-dove. All we want’s a chance to trade some good
salt pork an’ ’taters fer a pair o’ them extra fine pantaloons--boy
size--’bout big enough fer young Tad here. Ef you’ll jes’ put away that
blunderbuss an’ explain the purpose of our visit to Miss Fanny, we’ll
come aboard an’ do business.”
Magoon’s whiskers parted to display a set of strong, even teeth. He
tipped his head back and reared with laughter. “So ye shall,” he
said at last, and wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of a
weather-browned hand. “Durned ef I ever heerd sech a brag as that on
any o’ the rivers,” he chuckled. “But I’ll guar’ntee the fishin’ worms
an’ turtle-doves kin take keer o’ theirselves when they hafter.”
He rose, thrust the pistol back into its hiding-place, and limped over
to the gunwale with outstretched hand. “Make yerselves to home,” he
said.
They lashed the two boats loosely with a length of rope, and Allen
stayed aboard the _Katy Roby_ to steer, while Abe and Tad made their
purchase. They picked out a pair of serviceable brown homespun breeches
from the merchant’s stock, and for them traded two flitches of bacon
and a barrel of apples.
Allen, with an eye to the profit of the voyage, started to raise some
objection, but Abe merely answered, “I’ll pay fer ’em when I git my
wages,” and went on rolling out the barrel.
When the transaction was completed, the genial trader looked up at
the sun and whistled. “What about dinner?” he asked. “I’ve got a big
catfish here--more’n Fanny an’ me could eat in a week. S’pose I make
some hot coals an’ we’ll broil him on a plank.”
The Hoosier crew were in hearty agreement with this idea, and while Abe
relieved him at the steering-oar, Allen set about making corn-bread as
their share of the feast.
Tad, who had no special chores to perform, stayed aboard the scow and
got better acquainted with Magoon and the red setter.
The old river-man had an ingenious sort of Dutch oven built into the
wall of the caboose. Adding dry wood to his fire, he soon had a brisk
blaze roaring up the chimney. Meanwhile he proceeded to clean and split
the catfish, and peg it out on a piece of plank which had evidently
been used before for the purpose.
“That pistol,” said Moses Magoon, “my ol’ Pap toted over the mountings
from North Caroliny in ’seventy-nine. It’s old an’ rusty an’ ain’t been
fired fer fifteen year. ’Tain’t even loaded now, but I keep it handy to
persuade some o’ these thievin’ river toughs with.
“I been cruisin’ up an’ down the Mississip’ an’ the Ohio ever since I
was a young feller, an’ I’ve run afoul of ’em all, one time or another.
Jes’ last week here, a big keel-boat with half a dozen men on deck come
up alongside, somethin’ like you did. It was Little Billy, an’ his
gang, from up the North Fork o’ Muddy Run, an’ I figgered I was in fer
trouble.
“But this yere Little Billy has only got his eye out fer two
things--money an’ whisky--an’ I don’t carry neither one of ’em. I
let him come aboard an’ look, an’ he never laid hand on any o’ my
goods--jes’ as polite as you please. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘long as ye ain’t
got no Kaintucky red-eye, what’ll ye take fer the dog?’
“‘Sorry, Mister,’ I says, an’ I was scairt. ‘She ain’t no ways fer
sale,’ I says. ‘She’d break her heart an’ die if I let her go.’ An’
Little Billy, he jes’ grins an’ says, ‘Right, I had a good dog myself,
once.’ An’ with that he steps back on his keel-boat an’ off they go.
“I had a bad time, couple o’ years back, with Mike Fink--him they
call ‘The Snag,’” the old trader went on. “I landed at New Madrid one
night an’ went up to the store. When I come back, with my arms full o’
provisions, I see another boat tied up, close above. An’ jest as I was
goin’ to step aboard mine, eight or ten men that had been layin’ low
under the bank stood up thar in the dark. One of ’em says, ‘All right,
stranger, we’ll take keer o’ this,’ an’ he grabs the provisions. Then
they march me aboard o’ my own craft an’ tell me to show ’em whar my
money is an’ no monkey business. I acted like I was plumb scairt to
death--teeth a-chatterin’ an’ knees a-shakin’.
“‘All right,’ I finally whispers, ‘I’ll show ye whar it’s hid, only
thar ain’t room fer but two to go in.’
“Mike Fink swings ’round to his gang. ‘Git back on shore, ye lousy
varmints!’ he bellers. When they’re all up on the bank, he pulls out
his knife an’ holds it in his teeth, an’ I lead the way into the
caboose here. It’s a right dark night an’ Mike he strikes a light an’
holds up a candle, while I’m rummagin’ round in the corner. Pretty soon
I undo the ketch o’ this leetle trap door down here in the bulkhead,
an’ open her up. ‘Whar’s that go?’ says the Snag. ‘That’s my secret
hidin-place,’ I says--‘want me to go first, or you?’ An’ I’m still
lettin’ on to be tremblin’ so I kin hardly talk.
“‘You,’ says Mike, ‘an’ by the ol’ ’Tarnation I’ll cut you into stewin’
meat if you try any tricks.’
“So I crawls through the hole on my hands an’ knees, an’ waits fer him
to follow.”
Magoon opened the little trap door as he spoke, and Tad laughed when he
saw a two-foot ledge of deck and then the river beyond it.
“Wal,” the old man went on, “Mike didn’t come through, right off, an’ I
tell you I _was_ scairt. ’Twas so durn dark outside, I knew he couldn’t
see, but he stayed thar an’ tried to figger if I was up to anything.
Finally he says, ‘Bring the money out here in the cabin.’ I’m workin’
at the moorin’-rope all this time, an’ now I make a noise like I’m
tuggin’ an’ liftin’. ‘Can’t,’ says I. ‘It’s too heavy!’
“That fetched him, sure ’nough. Here he comes on all fours, with the
knife still in his teeth. I gives the rope one last pull an’ it comes
away, an’ then ’fore he rightly sees whar he is, I ketches him by the
scruff o’ the neck an’ heaves him overboard.
“You can bet I didn’t wait to see whether he was drowned, neither. I
give a big shove with the oar an’ got out o’ reach o’ the bank, an’
then I stood by the gunwale with an ax, ready to cut the hands off
anybody that tried to swim out an’ climb aboard.
“It must have took Mike a few minutes to crawl out an’ git organized
again. Anyhow they never follered me.”
The last part of the story had been told out on the open deck, and Abe
and Allen were listening with rapt attention.
“Is that the same Mike Fink they call the ‘Snappin’ Turtle’ up our
way?” asked Abe.
“That’s him,” the old man nodded. “He’s called that above the Wabash.
Both names is too good fer him. Wal, boys, how’s the dinner comin’
along?”
Tad’s mind was filled with questions about the river pirates, but he
postponed asking them long enough to do full justice to the planked
catfish. When the meal was over he perched himself on the gunwale of
the trading-boat and waited for the grizzled river-man to get his cob
pipe going.
“Mr. Magoon,” he said, when the blue smoke-clouds were rising at last,
“who do you think is the worst outlaw you ever ran across?”
The old man puffed in silence for a moment. “Reckon the worst I ever
see with my personal eyes was ol’ Jericho Wilson o’ the Cave Gang,” he
replied at length. “Him an’ Black Carnahan an’ Earless Jake Rogers was
a bad bunch. They had more’n a hundred men to back ’em up, an’ kep’
the whole Ohio Valley scairt fer a while. When that posse of up-river
hunters wiped ’em out, I know mighty well we all breathed easier.
“But listen to me, boy. Fer real cold-blooded, cutthroat deviltry,
nobody on any o’ the rivers kin touch this man John Murrell. He an’ his
gang hang out on an island somewhere down beyond Natchez. He started
as a gambler, hoss-thief, an’ murderer, but his main trade nowadays is
stealin’ niggers. They say he’s killed twenty-eight men himself, an’
gosh knows how many the rest o’ the gang have put away. Mostly he works
along the lower river, but once in a while, when things git too hot
around the plantations, he stays out o’ sight fer a while, mebbe up the
Ohio, or over in Alabama.”
“Did you ever see him?” asked Tad.
“Not me, an’ I hope the day don’t soon come!” said Magoon, fervently.
“They tell me he’s a tall, pale-faced sort o’ feller, with dead black
hair like a Frenchman. But the chances are you’ll never run afoul of
him. He don’t bother with flatboats much. He’s out for bigger game.”
He got up from his box and looked over at the eastern shore, shading
his eyes with his hand. Some one on the bank was waving a white cloth
to and fro.
“That’s a signal fer me to land,” he said. “The folks along the river
know a tradin’-scow by the calico flag, an’ wave to us when they want
us.”
Tad got back aboard the _Katy Roby_, and they cast off the tie-rope.
“Wal, so long, Hoosiers,” said Magoon. “Reckon I won’t see ye again,
less’n I ketch ye in New Orleans. Take keer o’ yerselves. Ho, ho!
Fishin’ worms an’ suckin’ doves! Heh, heh!” And he was still chuckling
over Abe’s words and repeating them to Fanny, the setter, as the two
boats drifted apart.
Tad watched the odd little craft until its owner was no longer visible
in the distance. Then he looked down at the coarse, homely pantaloons
that covered his legs. In spite of himself he could not help a little
smile as he thought of the spectacle he would present to one of his
carefully attired schoolmates.
Abe saw the smile, and his face lit with pleasure.
“Like ’em, Tad?” he asked.
“You bet,” said Tad stoutly. “But listen, Abe, you oughtn’t to do this
for me. How much does Mr. Gentry pay you, anyway?”
“That’s all right,” replied the big backwoodsman, grinning proudly. “I
git eight dollars a month an’ my steamboat passage home.”
And with that he vaulted to the fore deck and picked up the oars.