Now he was on the way from a river goddess to interfere with the infamous plans of river pirates, through a dry gale out of the north, on the winding course of the Mississippi, a transition which troubled the self-possession while it awakened the spirit of the young man.
Dawn broke on the troubled river, and the prospect was enchanting to the heroic in the mind of the skiff-tripper. He could not be sure which was east or west, for the gray light appeared on all sides, in spots and patches of varying size. No gleam reflected from the yellow clay of the tumbling and tortured waters. As far as he could see there was light, but not a bright light. Dull purples, muddy waters, gray tree trunks, black limbs against dark clouds; Terabon felt the weariness of a desert, the melancholy of a wet, dripping-tree wilderness, and of a tumbling waste of waters; and yet never had the solid body of the stream been so awe-inspiring as in that hour of creeping and insinuating dawn.
He ran out into the main river again, and a wonderful prospect opened before his eyes. Sandbars spread out for miles across the river and lengthwise of the river; the bulk of the stream seemed broken up into channels and chutes and wandering waterways. He saw column after column of lines of spiles, like black teeth, through which the water broke with protesting foam.
When he thought to reckon up, as he passed Osceola Bar, he found that he had come ninety-five miles. Yankee Bar was only five or six miles below him, and he eagerly pulled down to inspect the long beaches, the 159 chutes and channels, which the river pirates had used for not less than 150 years; where they still had their rendezvous.
Wild ducks and geese were there in many flocks. There were waters sheltered from the wind by willow patches. The woods of Plum Point Peninsula were heavy and dark. The river main current slashed down the miles upon miles of Craighead Point, and shot across to impinge upon Chickasaw Bluffs No. 1, where a made dirt bank was silhouetted against the sky.
Not until his binoculars rested upon the bar at the foot of Fort Pillow Bluff did Terabon’s eyes discover any human beings, and then he saw a white houseboat with a red hull. He headed toward it to ask the familiar river question.
“No, suh!” the lank, sharp-eyed fisherman shook his head. “Theh’s no motorboat landed up theh, not this week. Who all mout you be?”
“Lester Terabon; I’m a newspaper writer; I live in New York; I came down the Mississippi looking for things to tell about in the newspapers. You see, lots of people hardly know there’s a Mississippi River, and it’s the most interesting place I ever heard of.”
“Terabon? I expect you all’s the feller Whiskey Williams was tellin’ about; yo’n a feller name of Carline was up by No. 8. He said yo’ had one of them writin’ machines right into a skift. Sho! An’ yo’ have! The woman an’ me’d jes’ love to see yo’ all use hit.”
“You’ll see me,” Terabon laughed, “if you’ll let me sit by your stove. I’ve some writing I could do. Here’s a goose for dinner, too.”