CHAPTER VIII.
THEY WALK IN RIVER NIGHT
DONA VOANE went afloat in the murder boat. Toskin remained on the Jungle. Rillard watched her departure with eyes whose light changed to darkness and Dona hardly glanced at him at all. She held the beautifully balanced sweeps of the little shanty boat, dropping down White River current into the Mississippi, her thoughts entirely on Toskin, who had loaned her his boat.
hat had been such an honorable thing to do! It showed his fine feeling, his understanding of the predicament that had compelled her to float down the river with the bungling and proud-thoughted Rillard. Rillard had said many things that made Dona despise him more and more.
He had been glad that the river people were so isolated, and she had found some amusement in his confidence that his river experience was sure to be buried in the oblivion of river tradition. The river, she knew, would protect its own, but when some sport tripped down, and sought to take advantage of the river's characteristics—well, old Mississip' would change them for the occasion.
Toskin, however, was different. He fitted in. She could see why the pirates had trusted him—he was gifted with tact and the river etiquette just naturally laid its law down for him, and he obeyed. Who but a natural born river man would have instantly offered her his own shanty boat to relieve her of the equivocal position she seemed to occupy, floating down in the four state-roomed, large-cabined, well-found Jungle?
She made her escape from that predicament immediately, and dropped down to Mozart Bend, to land in for the night with her old friend, Mrs. Forbes, who owned the great horseshoe of river, holding it against all comers, and five of whose seven husbands were buried up the bank, all in a row. Mrs. Forbes came down running, but as she stared at the shanty boat she drew nervously back.
"What boat's that? What boat's that. Dona?" she cried in a shrill voice.
"A man name of Toskin lent me hit, account of ourn tearin' up—mother's daid!"
"So I hearn—po'r gal! Lawsy! How come hit?"
"Hit were a fool scoundrel, a sport name of Rillard! He was sittin' into his boat pilot house, the Jungle—we drapped down Red Town Bend—an' yo' know what 'tis, the sawyers an' snags along that cavin' bank. Down we drapped—up a sawyer jumped. Lawsy—Lawsy!"
Dona sobbed, and the little, red-haired river woman put her arm around the disconsolate girl. They went up to Mrs. Forbes's small red shanty boat on its skids, and Dona finished her narrative.
"I jumped to the Jungle—throwed off the line, or hit 'd be'n pulled oveh, too! He, the fool, stood theh, jaw-drapped an' wide-eyed! Theh I was—a lonely bend—no boat of mine! On hisn's boat. I could have jumped in, but—shucks—hit had four staterooms, an' I had one, 'sides my thirty-two automatic I always wear. We kept a trippin' down. 'Course theh's a lot of talk—"
"I hearn hit. The newspapers has stories about hit—"
"An that fool 'lowed nobody'd know but shanty boaters! He's always 'fraid he'd be found out—no idea but as to him. 'Course I didn't count, not to hisn mind! We draped into Montgomery Chute, an' Mad Tom's landed into Arkansaw Old Mouth, but he didn't get to see me. I come by late an' dusky. Hyar I be, Mother Forbes!"
"An' glad I am yo' come. But that boat, missy! Law-sy! Yo' don't sleep into hit?"
"I'm not afeared to; theh's a picture drawin' an' photographin' fellow drapped down into hit—"
"Yo' took hit?"
"When he handed hit to me, sayin' I was welcome! Shucks—I'd took a pizen tlesnake from him—"
"Sho!" Mrs. Forbes exclaimed, and Dona blushed as she realized the significance of what she had said.
"Hit were jes' friendly, so's I needn't to stay on the Jungle any more. I took hit—at Arkansaw City, of course, I kin draw money, an' outfit again—"
Despite Mrs. Forbes's objections. Dona went down on board the boat to sleep that night. It was a late hour, for Mrs. Forbes and she had had many things to talk over. Going up the pretty plank gangway, serving as a spar to hold the bow off the bank, she hauled taut the port bow line, which was slack, and felt the stern line and found it run out in good water in the eddy. Entering the cabin, she locked both doors and sat down in the lamp light and felt the loneliness of her life now.
Her mother had gone utterly out of her life, like the light of a candle. She was alone in the world, but self-reliant. That wasn't it. The companionship had been sufficient. They had enjoyed the river living; they had braved its jeopardies, and they had lived on after her father had mysteriously disappeared, as men do. She was sure he was dead, and she suspected it had been murder done by Mad Tom or his pirates, to force her to be his wife. Then Rillard's unpardonable negligence had bereaved her. In her heart she hated him, almost equal to her hate for Mad Tom.
Now Toskin loomed in her young, free mind. He had brought, first of all, understanding to the river. Knowing the murder boat for what it was, he had dared it with true courage—a thousand miles of river was talking about Toskin's "wrestling with the spirits."
In the quiet, in the gloom, she heard them now; they were walking, this night; Rillard, fool up-the-banker that he was, had heard them in his mean way, and they had inspired him to his—she laughed—silly kiss, with its prompt punishment by the coming of Mad Tom. Real, permissible kisses aren't interrupted down old Mississip'. Her chuckle faded into a vague and irresistible regret.
Old Mississip' had never permitted her to have a real lover, one who was respectable. She was quite willing, but none had come along. Toskin had befriended her; thinking of him, she listened to the river, and heard the murmuring of the ripples and the undertone of the mighty flood.
Listening, she began to hear other sounds not meant for her ears. She heard voices and knew them to be the marching host that so often parades up and down the mid-current, a motley throng, and among them in her mind's ears, she heard a familiar voice.
Trembling, reluctant, unable to resist the impulse, she put out the light and opened wide the window curtain, pulled aside the slide window and looked over the stern at the sweep of the river horseshe bend. It a grand night scene—a few of the brighter stars shone faintly through the thick air, and the river surface, from shore to shore, was glowing with rippling radiance.
There the girl's true eyes saw the host, as never before; she saw the throng of spectral people strolling up and down, some in their quaint old customs, some in Indian raiment, some recent and not yet old-fashioned. She saw among them, as plainly as though she were but a hundred yards distance, her mother.
"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" Dona whispered to herself. "Oh—mother—is it you?"
The figure stopped and turned to look. It was Mrs. Voane. She was a beautiful woman; her eyes were full of luster, and they were seeing eyes; she gave Dona a perfectly eloquent look, turned and saw some one coming through the throng, and walked to meet him.
It was her father. Voane was dead. He was coming, crowding his way through the press of people, but careful of the little children who played—children of Indians, of French, of Spanish, of pioneers, of shanty boat, ark, steamboat people—in his way. He came to her mother, and the two embraced; for an instant Dona was hurt and bewildered—then the two turned and looked at her. For a long time they looked across that eddy and the daughter read in their eyes the things they were thinking; they were loving her—they were smiling at her with understanding—they were infinitely kind and comprehending.
They stood there while the others walked up and down beyond them. One of the strollers came swaggering along, and Dona recognized him as he came to her parents. He was a handsome, youngish kind of man—bold and laughing in his careless wavy; now she saw him look at her, his eyes twinkling—and as he pointer to her and the boat she shivered with apprehension, which quickly ceased, however.
She was on board his boat—Clell Wilmonds's boat. He was the man who had built it, owned it, tripped the river in it, and been murdered in it. The three talked together, and after a time, each looking at her in their own ways, they strolled together into the throng, and, eddying in it, visible for a long time as they went on and on, greeting old acquaintances and strange people, they at last passed out of sight.
Then the shades glimmered and grew indistinct. There was something to be seen, and Dona strained her eyes trying to see more distinctly. But the spectral procession mingled and melted away. The river was vacant from shore to shore. She saw the trees on yon side, amid the sand bar point; she saw the sand bar up the river, the crossing down the river.
She heard birds singing, and started up with astonishment. Over the trees, across the river, to the east were rays of sunshine, and the twigs of the forest gleamed and shone with reflections on the dew. It was dawn—daybreak had come apace!
Dona started to her feet, tears of gratitude flowing down her cheeks. No one in the up-the-bank world would ever believe that she had seen what had passed before her eyes; least of all would they believe that her father and mother had been united in that vast throng before her very eyes; but in her heart was such comfort as she had not known since that long wait for the return of her father had begun.
She knew he was dead; her mother was dead; she alone remained of the Voanes. She was surprised to find in her hand a banjo which she had not seen—she was picking it, picking it gayly, and the music was what had started the birds a-singing.
"Why, it's my banjo what was stoled!" she gasped.
"Dona! Dona Voane!" a shrill voice hailed down the river bank. "My Lawse! I lowed yo'd gone plumb crazy!"
It was Mrs. Forbes. Mrs. Forbes added the rest to the story of that night:
"Gal—gal, hit's yo' makin' that music? I hearn hit an' I hearn hit—why, I 'lowed hit were the ghostes a-walkin'! I was plumb scairt—po'r gal! Was yo' that lonesome, yo' played yo' banjo all night? Hit's sweet, an' I—I was scairt. Yo' wouldn't b'lieve me, but I was jes' shore I could see 'em walkin'. Sometimes, when I had a husband die or git killed up I'd see 'em. But, shucks! Hit's jes' dreamin'! I don't b'lieve in haunts an' them sperits comin' back, a-tormentin' folks, do you? If yo' kill a man he don't come a-hauntin' back, does he, gal?"
"I don't think so. Probably he's glad to be gone." Dona smiled, and the river woman cackled and chuckled with relief.
"Why," she said, "I'd 'a' bet yo' was jes' sufferin', plumb worried an' sorrowin' to death, 'ceptin' the banjo music. Yo' had that banjo when yo' drapped down three years ago. I neveh hearn such music, then; but last night—why, gal, purty as yo' be, playin' like that! I bet—I bet yo'd git to be a show-boat gal—an' they'd have yo' on the stage, to Memphis er N'Orleans. I went to a show to N'Orleans one time I was honeymoonin' down. They sung, they danced, they played; but, gal, if they was handsome, yo'd look down on 'em all! Lawse! Seems like yo' grown a heap purtier sincet jes' last night! Yo' was tired, then. Now yo's rested. Don' yo' worry don' yo' wear yo'se'f out! Be ready when yo' meet yo' man to be purtier'n a bluejay er an oriole!"
"Oh, I shall!" Dona laughed lightly, and picked a dozen bars on the great banjo. Then she went up to eat breakfast with Mrs. Forbes.
"You wouldn't b'lieve what I've seen out theh!" Mrs. Forbes said in awe.
"You good dear!" Dona exclaimed. "I'm a river girl; I'd believe anything you ever told me about it."
Mrs. Forbes laughed, but her eyes were charged with awe as she looked out across old Mississip', sparkling and dancing in the sunshine as the flood poured along. After breakfast Dona drifted away down the river toward Arkansaw City.
She experienced little difficulty in assuming charge of her own affairs. The joint ownership which she and her mother had taken of the property permitted her to draw checks, buy or sell, and control the fortune. This done, she tripped away down the river, her heart singing, and keeping tune to it with her banjo and her voice.
She was happy; she was sure; she trusted herself to old Mississip' like a babe trusts itself to its mother; also, she kept her pistol loaded and practiced with the guns that Toskin had left on board.
She wanted now to see what old Mississip' would do next—and she laughed to the river's smile, happy in her brave heart and rejoicing in her knowledge.
"What's a-comin'?" she asked. "Just a singsong to dance to!"