For long hours Parson Rasba endured the drifting sand and the biting wind which penetrated the weather-cracks in his poplar shanty-boat. It was not until near nightfall that it dawned on him that he need not remain there, that it was the simplest thing in the world to let go his hold and blow before the wind till he was clear of the sandblast.

He did haul in his anchor and float away. As he rode the waves and danced before the wind the clouds of sand were flung swiftly down upon the water, where the surface was covered with a film and a sheet of dust.

Standing at his sweeps, he saw that he was approaching the head of another sandbar, and as he felt the water shoaling under the boat he cast over the anchor and rode in clear air again. He was not quite without a sense of humour.

Shaking the dust out of his long hair and combing it out of his whiskers, he laughed at his ignorance and lack of resource. He swept the decks and floor of his cabin, and scooped the sand up with an ash shovel to throw overboard. A lesson learned on the Mississippi is part of the education of the future—if there is anything in the pupil’s head to hold a memory of a fact or experience.

Even though he knew it was his own ignorance that had kept him a prisoner in that storm, Parson Rasba did not fail to realize that his ignorance had been sin, and that his punishment was due to his absorption in the fate of a pretty woman.

Certainly after such a sharp rebuke he could not fail to return to his original task, imposed upon him because of his fault in bringing the feud fighters of his 118 home mountains together, untrained and unrepentant, to hear the voice of his pride declare the Word for the edification of sinners. Parson Rasba did not mince his words as he contemplated the joy he had felt in being eloquent and a “power” of a speaker from the pulpits of the mountain churches. The murdering by the feud fighters had taught him what he would never forget, and his frank acknowledgment of each rebuke gave him greater understanding.

While the gale lasted he watched the river and the sky. The wild fowl flying low, and dropping into woods behind him led to forays seeking game, and in a bayou a mile distant he drew down with deadly aim on one of a flock of geese. He killed that bird, and then as its startled and lumbering mates sought flight, he got two more of them, missing another shot or two in the excitement.

The three great birds made a load for him, and he returned to his boat with a heart lighter than he had known in many a day because it seemed to him a “sign” that he need not hate himself overmuch. The river consoled him, and its constancy and integrity were an example which he could not help but take to heart.

Gales might blow, fair weather might tempt, islands might interpose themselves in its way, banks and sandbars might stand against the flood, but come what might, the river poured on through its destined course like a human life.

He entertained the whimsical fancy, as his smallest goose was roasting, that perhaps the Mississippi might sin. In so many ways the river reminded him of humankind. He had stood beside a branch of the Mississippi which was so small and narrow that he could dam it with his ample foot, or scoop it up with a 119 bucket—and yet here it was a mile wide! In its youth it was subject to the control of trifling things, a stone or a log, or the careless handiwork of a man. Down here all the little threads of its being had united in a full tide of life still subject to the influences of its normal course, but wearing and tearing along beyond any power to stop till its appointed course was run.

Insensibly Parson Rasba felt the resources of his own mind flocking to help him. Just being there beside that mighty torrent helped him to get a perspective on things. Tiny things seemed so useless in the front of that overwhelming power. What were the big things of his own life? What were the important affairs of his existence?

He could not tell. He had always meant to do the right thing. He could see now, looking back on his life, that his good intentions had not prevented his ignorance from precipitating a feud fight.

“I should have taken them, family by family, and brought them to their own knees fustest,” he thought, grimly. “Then I could have helt ’em all together in mutual repentance!”

Having arrived at that idea, he shrugged his shoulders almost self-contemptuously. “I’m a learnin’. That’s one consolation, I’m a learnin’!”

And then Rasba heard the Call!

It was Old Mississip’s voice; the river was heaping duties upon him more and more. So far, he had been rather looking out for himself, now he recalled the houseboats which he had seen moored down the reaches and in the bends. Those river people, dropping down incessantly with the river current, must sometimes need help, comfort, and perhaps advice. His humility would not permit him to think that he could preach to them or exhort them. 120

“Man to man, likely I could he’p some po’r sinner see as much as I can see. If I could kind of get ’em to see what this big, old riveh is like! Hit’s carryin’ a leaf er a duck, an’ steamboats an’ shanty-bo’ts; hit carries the livin’ an’ hit carries the daid; hit begrudges no man it’s he’p if he comes to it to float down a log raft er a million bushels of coal. If Ole Mississip’ll do that fo’ anybody, suttin’ly hit’s clear an’ plain that God won’t deny a sinner His he’p! Yas, suh! Now I’ve shore found a handle to keep hold of my religion!”

Peace of mind had come to him, but not the peace of indolence and neglect. Far from that! He saw years of endless endeavour opening before him, but not with multitudes looking up to him as he stood, grand and noble, in the bright light of a thousand pulpits, circuit riding the earth. Instead, he would go to a sinning man here, a sorrowing woman there, and perhaps sit down with a little child, to give it comfort and instruction.

People were too scattered down the Mississippi to think of congregations. All days were Sunday, and for him there could be no day of rest. If he could not do big work, at least he could meet men and women, and he could get to know little children, to understand their needs. He knew it was a good thought, and when he looked across the Mississippi, he saw night coming on, but between him and the dark was sunset.

The cold white glare changed to brilliant colours; clouds whose gray-blue had oppressed the soul of the mountain man flashed red and purple, growing thinner and thinner, and when he had gazed for a minute at the glow of a fixed government light he was astonished by the darkness of night—only the night was filled with stars. 121

Thus the river, the weather, the climate, the sky, the sandbars, and the wooded banks revealed themselves in changing moods and varying lights to the mountain man whose life had always been pent in and narrowed, without viewpoint or a sense of the future. The monster size of the river dwarfed the little affairs of his own life and humbled the pride which had so often been humbled before. At last he began to look down on himself, seeing something of the true relation of his importance to the immeasurable efforts of thousands and millions of men.

The sand clouds carried by the north wind must ever remain an epoch in his experience. Definitely he was rid of a great deal of nonsense, ignorance, and pride; at the same time it seemed, somehow, to have grounded him on something much firmer and broader than the vanities of his youth.

His eyes searched the river in the dark for some place to begin his work, and as they did so, he discovered a bright, glaring light a few miles below him across the sandbar at the head of which he had anchored. He saw other lights down that way, a regular settlement of lights across the river, and several darting firefly gleams in the middle of the stream which he recognized were boats, probably small gasolene craft.

In forty minutes he was dipping his sweep blades to work his way into the eddy where several small passenger craft were on line-ends from a large, substantial craft which was brightly lighted by lanterns and a big carbide light. Its windows were aglow with cheeriness, and the occupants engaged in strange pastimes.

“Come, now, come on, now!” someone was crying in a sing-song. “Come along like I said! Come along, now—Seven—Seven—Seven!”

Parson Rasba’s oar pins needed wetting, for the 122 strain he put on the sweeps made them squeak. The splash of oars down the current was heard by people on board and several walked out on the deck.

“Whoe-e-e!” one hailed. “Who all mout yo’ be?”

“Rasba!” the newcomer replied. “Parson Elijah Rasba, suh. Out of the Ohio!”

“Hi-i-i!” a listener cried out, gleefully, “hyar comes the Riveh Prophet after yo sinners. Hi-i-i!”

There was a laugh through the crowd. Others strolled out to see the phenomenon. A man who had been playing with fortune at one of the poker tables swore aloud.

“I cayn’t neveh git started, I don’t shift down on my luck!” he whined. “Las’ time, jes’ when I was coming home, I see a piebald mewl, an’ now hyar comes a parson. Dad drat this yeah ole riveh! I’m goin’ to quit. I’m gwine to go to Hot Springs!”

These casual asides were as nothing, however, to the tumult that stirred in the soul of Jock Drones, who had been cutting bread to make boiled-ham sandwiches for their patrons that night. His acute hearing had picked up the sound of the coming shanty-boat, and he had felt the menace of a stranger dropping in after dark. Few men not on mischief bent, or determined to run all night, run into shanty-boat eddies.

He even turned down the light a little, and looked toward the door to see if the way was clear. The hail relieved the tension of his mind strain, but only for a minute. Then he heard that answer.

“Rasba!” he heard. “Parson Elijah Rasba, suh. Out of the Ohio!”

In a flash he knew the truth! Old Rasba, whose preaching he had listened to that bloody night away up in the mountains, had come down the rivers. A parson, none else, was camping on the mountain fugitive’s 123 trail. That meant tribulation, that meant the inescapableness of sin’s punishment—not in jails, not in trial courts, not on the gallows, but worse than that!

“Come abo’d, Parson!” someone shouted, and the boats bumped. There was a scramble to make a line fast, and then the trampling of many feet, as the Prophet was introduced to that particular river hell, amid stifled cries of expectancy and murmurs of warning. Next to being raided by the sheriff of an adjacent county, having a river prophet come on board is the greatest excitement and the smartest amusement of the bravados down the river.

“Hyar’s the Prophet!” a voice shouted. “Now git ready fo’ yo’ eternal damnation. See ’im gather hisse’f!”

Rasba gathering himself! Jock could not help but take a peep. It was Rasba, gaunt, tall, his head up close to the shanty-boat roof and his shoulders nearly a head higher than the collars of most of those men who stood by with insolence and doubtful good humour.

“Which’d yo’ rather git to play, Parson?” someone asked, slyly. “Cyards er bones er pull-sticks?”

“I’ve a friend down yeah, gentlemen.” The Prophet ignored the insult. “His mother wants him. She’s afeared likely he mout forget, since he was jes’ a boy friendly and needing friends. He’s no runt, no triflin’ no-’count, puppy man, like this thing,” in the direction whence the invitation had come, “but tall an’ square, an’ honourable, near six foot, an’ likely 160 pounds. Not like this little runt thing yeah, but a real man!”

There was a yell of approval and delight.

“Who all mout yo’ friend be?” Buck asked, respectfully, seeing that this was not a raid, but a visit.

“Jock, suh, Jock Drones, his mammy wants him, suh!”

Buck eyed the visitor keenly for a minute. Someone 124 said they never had heard of him. Buck, who saw that the visitor was in mind to turn back, suggested:

“Won’t yo’ have a cup of coffee, suh? Hit’s raw outside to-night, fresh and mean. Give him a chair, boys! I’m friendly with any man who takes a message from a mother to her wandering son.”

A dozen chairs were snatched out to the stove, and when Parson Rasba had accepted one, Buck stepped into the kitchen. He found Slip, alias Jock Drones, standing with beads of sweat on his forehead. No need to ask the first question; Buck poured out a cup of coffee and said:

“What’ll I tell him, Slip?”

“I cayn’t go back, Buck!” Slip whimpered. “Hit’s a hanging crime!”

“Something may have changed,” Buck suggested.

“No, suh, I’ve heard. Hit were my bullet—I’ve heard. Hit’s a trial, an’ hit’s—hit’s hanging!”

“Sh-h! Not so loud!” Buck warned. “If it’s lawyer money you need?”

“I got ’leven hundred, an’ a trial lawyer’ll cost only a thousand, Buck! Yo’s a friend—Lawse! I’d shore like to talk to him. He’s no detector, Parson Rasba yain’t. Why, he’s be’n right into a stillhouse, drunk the moonshine—an’ no revenue hearn of hit, the way some feared. My sister wrote me. I want to talk to him, Buck, but—but not let them outside know.”

“I’ll fix it,” Buck promised, carrying out steaming coffee, a plate of sandwiches, and two big oranges for the parson.

He returned, filled up the trays for the others, and took them out. Soon the crowd were sitting around, or leaning against the heavy crap table, talking and listening.

“Yo’ come way down from the mountangs to find a 125 mammy’s boy?” someone asked, his tone showing better than his words how well he understood the sacrifice of that journey.

“Hit’s seo,” Rasba nodded. “I’m partly to blame, myse’f, for his coming down. I was a mountain preacher, exhorter, and I ’lowed I knowed hit all. One candlelight I had a congregation an’ I hit ’er up loud that night, an’ I ’lowed I’d done right smart with those people’s souls. But—but hit were no such thing. This boy, Jock, he runned away that night, ’count of my foolishness, an’ we know he’s down thisaway; if I could git to find him, his mammy’d shore be comforted. She’s a heap more faith in me’n I have, but I come down yeah. Likely I couldn’t do much for that boy, but I kin show I’d like to.”

“Trippin’ a thousand miles shows some intrust!” somebody said.

“I lived all my life up theh in the mountangs, an’ hit’s God’s country, gem’men! This yeah—” he glanced around him till his glance fell upon the card cabinet on the wall between two windows, full of decks of cards and packets of dice and shaker boxes—“this yeah, sho! Hit ain’t God’s country, gem’men! Hit’s shore the Devil’s, an’ he’s shore ketched a right smart haul to-night! But I live yeah now!”

Buck, who had been coming and going, had stopped at the parson’s voice. He did not laugh, he did not even smile. The point was not missed, however. Far from it! He went out, bowed by the truth of it, and in the kitchen he looked at Slip, who was sitting in black and silent consideration of that cry, carried far in the echoes.

“You’re one of us, Parson!” a voice exclaimed in disbelief.

“Yas, suh,” Rasba smiled as he looked into the man’s eyes, “I’m one of you. I ’low we uns’ll git thar together, 126 ’cordin’ as we die. Look! This gem’men gives me bread an’ meat; he quenches my thirst, too. An’ I take hit out’n his hands. ’Peahs like he owns this boat!”

“Yas, suh,” someone affirmed.

“Then I shall not shake hit’s dust off my feet when I go,” Rasba declared, sharply. Buck stared; Rasba did not look at even his shoes; Buck caught his breath. Whatever Rasba meant, whatever the other listeners understood, Buck felt and broke beneath those statements which brought to him things that he never had known before.

“He’ll not shake the dust of this gambling dive from his feet!” Buck choked under his breath. “And this is how far down I’ve got!”

Rasba, conscious only of his own shortcomings, had no idea that he had fired shot after shot, let alone landed shell after shell. He knew only that the men sat in respectful, drawn-faced silence. He wondered if they were not sorry for him, a preacher, who had fallen so far from his circuit riding and feastings and meetings in churches. It did not occur to him that these men knew they were wicked, and that they were suffering from his unintentional but overwhelming rebuke.

They turned away impatiently, and went in their boats to the village landing across the river; a night’s sport spoiled for them by the coming of a luck-breaking parson. Others waited to hear more of what they knew they needed, partly in amusement, partly in curiosity, and partly because they liked the whiskery fellow who was so interesting. At the same time, what he said was stinging however inoffensive.

“Game’s closed for the night!” Buck announced, and the gamesters took their departure. They made no protest, for it was not feasible to continue gambling 127 when everyone knows a parson brings bad luck to a player.

The outside lights were extinguished, and Buck brought Slip from the kitchen inside to Rasba.

“This is Slip,” Buck explained, and the two shook hands, the fugitive staring anxiously at the other’s face, expecting recognition.

“Don’t yo’ know me, Parson?” Slip exclaimed. “Jock Drones. Don’t yo’ know me?”

“Jock Drones?” Rasba cried, staring. “Why, Sho! Hit is! Lawse—an’ I found yo’ right yeah—thisaway!”

“Yassuh,” Jock turned away under that bright gaze, “but I’m goin’ back, Parson! I’m goin’ back to stand trial, suh! I neveh knowed any man, not a blood relation would think so much of me, as to come way down yeah to tell me my mammy, my good ole mammy, wanted me to be safe––”

“An’ good, Jock!” Rasba cried.

“An’ good, suh,” the young man added, obediently.

“I’d better go over and see our sick man,” Buck turned to Slip.

“A sick man?” Rasba asked. “Where mout he be?”

“In that other shanty-boat, that little boat,” Slip exclaimed. “We’ll all go!”

When they entered the little boat, which sagged under their combined weights, Slip held the light so it would shine on the cot.

“Sho!” Rasba exclaimed. “Hyar’s my friend who got shot by a lady!”

“Yes, suh, Parson!” Prebol grinned, feebly. “Seems like I cayn’t get shut of yo’ nohow, but I’m shore glad to see yo’. These yeah boys have took cyar of me great. Same’s you done, Parson, but I wa’nt your kind, swearin’ around, so I pulled out. Yo’ cayn’t he’p me much, but likely—likely theh’s some yo’ kin.” 128

“I’d shore like to find them,” Rasba declared, smoothing the man’s pillow. “But there’s not so many I can he’p. Yo’ boys are tired; I’ll give him his medicine till to’d mornin’. Yo’d jes’ soon, Prebol?”

“Hit’d be friendly,” Prebol admitted. “Yo’ needn’t to sit right yeah––”

“I ’low I shall,” Rasba nodded. “I got some readin’ to do. I’ll git my book, an’ come back an’ set yeah!”

He brought his Bible, and looking up to bid the two good-night, he smiled.

“Hit’s considerable wrestle, readin’ this yeah Book! I neveh did git to understand hit, but likely I can git to know some more now. I’ve had right smart of experiences, lately, to he’p me git to know.”