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. 194

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 195 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. 196 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 197 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 198 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 199 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. 200

“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 201 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 202 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.” 203

“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!”