Parson Elijah Rasba, the River Prophet, could not think what he would say to these river people who had determined to have a sermon for their Sabbath entertainment. Neither his Bible nor his hurried glances from book to book which Nelia Crele had given him brought any suggestion which seemed feasible. His father had always declared that a sermon, to be effective, “must have one bullet fired straight.”

What bullet would reach the souls of these river people who sang ribald songs, danced to lively music, and lived clear of all laws except the one they called “The Law,” a deadly, large-calibre revolver or automatic pistol?

“I ’low I just got to talk to them like folks,” he decided at last, and with that comforting decision went to sleep.

The first thing, after dawn, when he looked out upon the river in all the glory of sunshine and soft atmosphere and young birds, he heard a hail:

“Eh, Prophet! What time yo’ all goin’ to hold the meeting?”

“Round 10 or 11 o’clock,” he replied.

Rasba went to one of the boats for breakfast, and he was surprised when Mamie Caope asked him to invoke a blessing on their humble meal of hot-bread, sorghum, fried pork chops, oatmeal, fried spuds, percolator coffee, condensed cream, nine-inch perch caught that morning, and some odds and ends of what she called “leavings.”

Then the women all went over on his big mission boat and cleaned things up, declaring that men folks didn’t 213 know how to keep their own faces clean, let alone houseboats. They scrubbed and mopped and re-arranged, and every time Rasba appeared they splashed so much that he was obliged to escape.

When at last he was allowed to return he found the boat all cleaned up like a honey-comb. He found that the gambling apparatus had been taken away, except the heavy crap table, which was made over into a pulpit, and that chairs and benches had been arranged into seats for a congregation. A store-boat man climbed to the boat’s roof at 10:30, with a Texas steer’s horn nearly three feet long, and began to blow.

The blast reverberated across the river, and echoed back from the shore opposite; it rolled through the woods and along the sandbars; and the Prophet, listening, recalled the tales of trumpets which he had read in the Bible. At intervals of ten minutes old Jodun filled his great lungs, pursed his lips, and swelled his cheeks to wind his great horn, and the summons carried for miles. People appeared up the bank, swamp angels from the timber brakes who strolled over to see what the river people were up to, and skiffs sculled over to bring them to the river meeting. The long bend opposite, and up and down stream, where no sign of life had been, suddenly disgorged skiffs and little motorboats of people whose floating homes were hidden in tiny bays, or covered by neutral colours against their backgrounds.

The women hid Rasba away, like a bridegroom, to wait the moment of his appearance, and when at last he was permitted to walk out into the pulpit he nearly broke down with emotion. There were more than a hundred men and women, with a few children, waiting eagerly for him. He was a good old fellow; he meant all right; he’d taken care of Jest Prebol, who had 214 deserved to be shot; he was pretty ignorant of river ways, but he wanted to learn about them; he hadn’t hurt their feelings, for he minded his own business, saying not a word about their good times, even if he wouldn’t dance himself. They could do no better than let him know that they hadn’t any hard feelings against him, even if he was a parson, for he didn’t let on that they were sinners. Anyway, they wanted to hear him hit it up!

“I came down here to find a son whose mother was worrited about him,” Rasba began at the beginning. “I ’lowed likely if I could find Jock it’d please his mammy, an’ perhaps make her a little happier. And Jock ’lowed he’d better go back, and stand trial, even if it was a hanging matter.

“You see, I didn’t expect you’d get to learn very much from me, and I haven’t been disappointed. I’m the one that’s learning, and when I think what you’ve done for me, and when I see what Old Mississip’ does, friendlying for all of us, tripping us along––”

They understood. He looked at the boat, at them, and through the wide-open windows at the sun-rippled water.

“Now for religion. Seems like I’m impudent, telling you kindly souls about being good to one another, having no hard, mean feelings against anybody, and living like you ought to live. We’re all sinners! Time and again hit’s ag’in the grain to do what’s right, and if we taste a taste of white liquor, or if hit’s stained with burnt sugar to make hit red, why––”

“Sho!” someone grinned. “Parson Rasba knows!”

The preacher joined the laughter.

“Yas, suh!” he admitted, more gravely, “I know. I ’lowed, one time, that I’d git to know this yeah happiness that comes of liquor, an’ I shore took one awful 215 gulp. Three nights an’ three days I neveh slept a wink, an’ me settin’ theh by the fireplace, waitin’ to be lit up an’ jubulutin’, but hit didn’t come. I’ve be’n happier, jes’ a-settin’ an’ lookin’ at that old riveh, hearin’ the wild geese flocking by!

“That old riveh—Lawse! If the Mississippi brings you fish and game; if it gives you sheltered eddies to anchor in, and good banks or sandbars to tie against; if this great river out here does all that for you, what do you reckon the Father of that river, of all the world, of all the skies would do, He being so much friendlier and powerfuller?

“Hit’s easy to forget the good that’s done to you. Lots an’ lots of times, I bet you’ve not even thought of the good you’ve had from the river, from the sunshine, from the winds, plenty to eat and warm of nights on your boats and in your cabins. It’s easy to remember the little evil things, the punishments that are visited upon us for our sins or because we’re ignorant and don’t know; but reckon up the happiness you have, the times you are blessed with riches of comfort and pleasure, and you’ll find yourself so much happier than you are sad that you’ll know how well you are cared for.

“I cayn’t preach no reg’lar sermon, with text-tes and singing and all that. Seems like I jes’ want to talk along rambling like, and tell you how happy you are all, for I don’t reckon you’re much wickeder than you are friendly on the average. I keep a-hearing about murdering and stealing and whiskey boating and such things. They’re signs of the world’s sinfulness. We talk a heap about such things; they’re real, of course, and we cayn’t escape them. At the same time, look at me!

“I came down here, sorry with myse’f, and you make 216 me glad, not asking if I’d done meanness or if I’d betrayed my friends. You ’lowed I was jes’ a man, same’s you. I couldn’t tell you how to be good, because I wasn’t no great shakes myse’f, and the worse I was the better you got. Buck an’ Jock gives me this boat for a mission boat; I’m ignorant, an’ a woman gives me––”

He choked up. What the woman had given him was too immeasurable and too wonderful for mere words to express his gratitude.

“I’m just one of those shoutin’, ignorant mountain parsons. I could out-whoop most of them up yonder. But down yeah, Old Mississip’ don’t let a man shout out. When yo’ play dance music, hit’s softer and sweeter than some of those awful mountain hymns in which we condemn lost souls to the fire. Course, the wicked goes to hell, but somehow I cayn’t git up much enthusiasm about that down yeah. What makes my heart rejoice is that there’s so much goodness around that I bet ’most anybody’s got a right smart chanct to get shut of slippin’ down the claybanks into hell.”

“Jest Prebol?” someone asked, seeing Prebol’s face in the window of the little red shanty-boat moored close by, where he, too, could listen.

“Jest Prebol’s been my guide down the riveh,” the Prophet retorted. “I can say that I only wish I could be as good a pilot for poor souls and sinners toward heaven as Jest is a river pilot for a wandering old mountain parson on the Mississippi––”

“Hi-i-i!” a score of voices laughed, and someone shouted, “So row me down the Jordan!”

They all knew the old religious song which fitted so nicely into the conditions on the Mississippi. Somebody called to someone else, and the musicians in the congregation slipped away to return with their violins, 217 banjos, accordions, guitars, and other familiar instruments. Before the preacher knew it, he had more music in the church than he had ever heard in a church before—and they knew what to play and what to sing.

The sermon became a jubilee, and he would talk along awhile till something he said struck a tuneful suggestion, and the singing would begin again; and when at last he brought the service to an end, he was astonished to find that he had preached and they had sung for more than two hours.

Then there was scurrying about, and from all sides the calm airs of the sunny Sabbath were permeated with the odours of roasts and fried things, coffee and sauces. A score wanted Rasba to dine out, but Mrs. Caope claimed first and personal acquaintance, and her claim was acknowledged. The people from far boats and tents returned to their own homes. Two or three boats of the fleet, in a hurry to make some place down stream, dropped out in mid-afternoon, and the little shanty-boat town was already breaking up, having lasted but a day, but one which would long be remembered and talked about. It was more interesting than murder, for murders were common, and the circumstances and place were so remarkable that even a burning steamboat would have had less attention and discussion.

The following morning Mrs. Caope offered Rasba $55 for his old poplar boat, and he accepted it gladly. She said she had a speculation in mind, and before nightfall she had sold it for $75 to two men who were going pearling up the St. Francis, and who thought that a boat a parson had tripped down in would bring them good luck.

The dancers of Saturday night, the congregation of Sunday, on Monday afternoon were scattered. Mrs. 218 Caope’s and another boat dropped off the river to visit friends, and mid-afternoon found Parson Rasba and Prebol alone again, drawing down toward Mendova.

Prebol knew that town, and he told Rasba about it. He promised that they would see something of it, but they could not make it that evening, so they landed in Sandbar Reach for the night. Just after dawn, while the rising sun was flashing through the tree tops from east to west, a motorboat driving up stream hailed as it passed.

“Ai-i-i, Prebol! Palura’s killed up!”

Prebol shouted out for details, and the passer-by, slowing down, gave a few more:

“Had trouble with the police, an’ they shot him daid into his own dance floor—and Mendova’s no good no more!”

“Now what the boys goin’ to do when they make a haul?” Prebol demanded in great disgust of Parson Rasba. “Fust the planters shot up whiskey boats; then the towns went dry, an’ now they closed up Palura’s an’ shot him daid. Wouldn’t hit make yo’ sick, Parson! They ain’t no fun left nowheres for good sports.”

Rasba could not make any comment. He was far from sure of his understanding. He felt as though his own life had been sheltered, remote from these wild doings of murders and shanty-boat-fleet dances and a congregation assembling in a gambling boat handed to him for a mission! He could not quite get his bearings, but the books blessed him with their viewpoints, as numerous as the points of the compass. He could not turn a page or a chapter without finding something that gave him a different outlook or a novel idea.

They landed in late on Monday at Mendova bar, just above the wharf. Up the slough were many shanty-boats, 219 and gaunt dogs and floppy buzzards fed along the bar and down the wharf.

Groups of men and women were scattered along both the slough and the river banks, talking earnestly and seriously. Rasba, bound up town to buy supplies, heard the name of Palura on many lips; the policemen on their beats waltzed their heavy sticks about in debonair skilfulness; and stooped, rat-like men passing by, touched their hats nervously to the august bluecoats.

When Rasba returned to the boat, he found a man waiting for him.

“My name is Lester Terabon,” the man said. “I landed in Saturday, and went up town. When I returned, my skiff and outfit were all gone—somebody stole them.”

“Sho!” Rasba exclaimed. “I’ve heard of you. You write for newspapers?”

“Yes, sir, and I’m some chump, being caught that way.”

“They meant to rob you?” Rasba asked.

“Why, of––I don’t know!” Terabon saw a new outlook on the question.

“Did they go down?”

“Yes, sir, I heard so. I don’t care about my boat, typewriter, and duffle; what bothers me is my notebooks. Months of work are in them. If I could get them back!”

“What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know—I’m going down stream; it’s down below, somewhere.”

“I need someone to help me,” Rasba said. “I’ve a wounded man here who has a doctor with him. If he goes up to the hospital or stays with us, I’ll be glad to have you for your help and company.”

“I’m in luck.” Terabon laughed with relief. 220

Just that way the Mississippi River’s narrow channel brought the River Prophet and the river reporter together. Terabon went up town and bought some clothes, some writing paper, a big blank notebook, and a bottle of fountain-pen ink. With that outfit he returned on board, and a delivery car brought down his share of things to eat.

The doctor said Prebol ought to go into the hospital for at least a week, and Terabon found Prebol’s pirate friends, hidden up the slough on their boat, not venturing to go out except at night. They took the little red shanty-boat up the slough, and Prebol went to the hospital.

Rasba, frankly curious about the man who wrote for newspapers for a living, listened to accounts of an odd and entertaining occupation. He asked about the Palura shooting which everyone was talking about, and when Terabon described it as he had witnessed it, Rasba shook his head.

“Now they’ll close up that big market of sin?” he asked. “They’ve all scattered around.”

“Yes, and they scattered with my skiff, too, and probably robbed Carline of his boat––”

“Carline! You know him?”

“I came down with him from Yankee Bar, and we went up to Palura’s together. I lost him in the shuffle, when the big cop killed Palura.”

“And Mrs. Carline, Nelia Crele?” Rasba demanded.

“Why—I—they said she’d landed in. She’s gone, too––”

“You know her?”

“Why, yes—I––”

“So do I. Those books,” he waved his hand toward the loaded shelves, “she gave them all to me for my mission boat!” 221

Terabon stared. He went to the shelves and looked at the volumes. In each one he found the little bookmark which she had used in cataloguing them:

Nelia Carline,
A Loved Book.
No. 87

A jealous pang seized him, in spite of his reportorial knowledge that jealousy is vanity for a literary person.

“I ’low we mout ’s well drop out,” Rasba suggested. “Missy Crele’s down below some’rs. Her boat floated out to’d mornin’, one of the boys said.”