The River Prophet Part 19

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 G.o.d won't deny a sinner His he'p! Yas, suh! Now I've sh.o.r.e 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 mult.i.tudes looking up to him as he stood, grand and n.o.ble, 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.

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 anch.o.r.ed.

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 pa.s.senger 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 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 b.l.o.o.d.y night away up in the mountains, had come down the rivers. A parson, none else, was camping on the mountain fugitive's 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 b.u.mped. 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 h.e.l.l, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt of the bravados down the river.

"Hyar's the Prophet!" a voice shouted. "Now git ready fo' yo' eternal d.a.m.nation. 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 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 sh.o.r.e 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 c.r.a.p table, talking and listening.

"Yo' come way down from the mountangs to find a 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 sh.o.r.e 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d's country, gem'men! Hit's sh.o.r.e the Devil's, an' he's sh.o.r.e 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, '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!"