“I’d better drop down and see if I can’t help him—do something. I know that crew.”
“You’ll do that for me!” her voice lifted in a cry of thankfulness. “Oh, if you would, if you would. I 136 couldn’t think of his being—his being killed, trying to find me. Get him; send him home!”
“I’d better start right down,” Terabon said, “it’s sixty or seventy miles, anyhow. They’ll not hurry. They can’t, for the gang’s in a shanty-boat.”
She walked up to him with her arms raised.
“How can I thank you?” she demanded. “You do this for me—a stranger!”
“Why not, if I can help?” he asked.
“Where shall I see you again?”
He brought in his book of river maps, and together they looked down the tortuous stream; he rested the tip of his pencil on Yankee Bar below Plum Point.
“It’s a famous pirate resort, this twenty miles of river!” he said. “I’ll wait at Fort Pillow Landing. Or if you are ahead?”
“We’ll meet there!” she cried. “I’ll surely find you there. Or at Mendova—surely at Mendova.”