“I’ve friends down here,” she said, with a little catch of her breath. “I was wondering if you—any of you gentlemen had seen them?”
“Your man, Gus Carline an’ that writin’ feller, Terabon?” Jet asked, without delicacy. Her cheeks flamed.
“Yes!” she whispered.
“Terabon took him down to Mendova or Memphis,” Despard said. “Carline was—was on the cabin and the boat lurched when the steamboat passing drawed. He drapped over and hit a spark plug on the head!”
“Was he badly hurt?”
“Not much—kind of a lump, that’s all.”
She looked down at Fort Pillow Bluff. The pirates awaited her pleasure, staring at her to their heart’s content. They envied her husband and Terabon; they felt the strangeness of the situation. She was following those two men down. She was part of the river tide, drifting by; she had shot Prebol, their pal, and had cleverly ascertained their knowledge of him while insuring that they had fair warning.
Her boat drifted down till it was opposite them, and then, with quick decision, she caught up a handy line, and said:
“I’m going to tie in a little while. I’ve been alone clear down from Caruthersville; I want to talk to somebody!” 181
She threw the rope, and they caught and made it fast. They swung her boat in, ran a plank from stern to bow, and Despard gave her his hand. She came on board, and they sat on the stern deck to talk. Only one kind of woman could have done that with safety, but she was that kind. She had shot a man down for a look.