For a long time his finite mind was without inspiration, without understanding, and then he choked with terror and regret. He had beguiled himself into believing that it was his duty to take care of Nelia Crele, the fair woman of the river. He had believed only too readily that his duty lay where his heart’s desire had been most eager. He sat there in dumb horror at the sin which had blinded him.
“I come down yeah to find Jock Drones for his mother!” He reminded himself by speaking his mission 94 aloud, adding, “And hyar I’ve be’n floating down looking for a woman, looking for a pretty woman!”
And because he could remember her shoes, the smooth leather over those exquisite ankles, Parson Rasba knew that his sin was mortal, and that no other son of man had ever strayed so far as he.
No wonder he was caught in a desert blizzard where no one had ever said there was a desert!
“Lord God,” he cried out, “he’p this yeah po’r sinner! He’p! He’p!”
CHAPTER XVI
Jock, alias “Slip,” Drones, was discovering how small the world really is. Like many another man, he had figured that no one would know him, no one could possibly find him, down the Mississippi River, more than a thousand miles from home. Having killed, or at least fought his man in a deadly feud war, he had escaped into the far places. His many months of isolation had given him confidence and taken the natural uneasiness of flight from his mind.
Now someone was coming down the Mississippi inquiring for Jock Drones! A detective, as relentless, as sure as a bullet in the heart, was coming. He might even then be lurking in the brush up the bank, waiting to get a sure drop. He might be dropping down that very night. He might step in among the players, unnoticed, unseen, and wait there for the moment of surprise and action.