It was a woman drifting in. Apparently she intended to land there, and the three men stared at her.
“His wife!” Despard said with soundless lips. The others nodded their recognition.
Mrs. Carline had run into the great dead eddy at the foot of Yankee Lower Bar, turned up in the slow reverse eddy of the chute, and was coming by their boat at the slowest possible speed.
Despard pulled his soft shirt collar, straightened his tie, hitched his suspenders, put on his coat, walked out on the stern deck, and, after a glance around, seemed suddenly to discover the stranger.
“Howdy!” he nodded, touching his cap respectfully, and gazing with flickering eyes at the woman whose marksmanship entitled her to the greatest respect.
“Howdy!” she nodded, scrutinizing him with level eyes. “Where am I?”
“Yankee Bar. Them’s Chickasaw Bluffs No. 1.”
“Do you know Jest Prebol?”
“Yessum.” Despard’s head bobbed in alarmed, unwilling assent.
“I thought perhaps you’d like to know that he’s getting along all right.”