he bank, yeah,
an' along of the chute, gettin' rats. Yo' trappin'?"

"No, just tripping," Terabon replied. "I was down to New Madrid this
morning."

"I'm just up from there. Ho law! Theh's one man I'd hate to be down
below. I expect yo've hearn tell of them Despard riveh pirates? No!
Well, they've come drappin' down ag'in, an' they landed into New Madrid
yestehd'y evenin'. Likely they 'lowed to raid some commissary down
b'low--cayn't tell what they did 'low to do. But they picked good
pickin's down theh! Feller come down lookin' fo' a woman, hisn's I
expect. Anyhow, he's a strangeh on the riveh. He's got a nice power
boat, an' likely he's got money. If he has, good-bye! Them Despards'd
kill a man for $10. One of 'em, Hilt Despard's onto the bo't with him,
pretendin' to be a sport, an' they've drapped out. The rest the gang's
jes' waitin' fo' the wind to lay, down b'low, an' down by Plum P'int,
some'rs, Mr. Man'll sudden come daid."

The fisherman had been alone so much that the pent-up conversation of
weeks flowed uninterruptedly. He told details; he described the
motorboat; he laughed at the astonishment the man would feel when the
pirates disclosed their intentions with a bullet or knife; and he
expected, by and by, to hear the story of the tragedy through the medium
of some whiskey boater, some river gossip coming up in a power boat.

For an hour he babbled and then, as precipitately as he had arrived, he
took his departure. When he was gone, Nelia Crele turned to Terabon with
helpless dismay. Augustus Carline was worthless; he had been faithless
to her; he had inflicted sufferings beyond her power of punishment or
forgiveness.

"But he's looking for me!" she recapitulated, "and he doesn't know. He's
a fool, and they'll kill him like a rat! What can I do?"

Obviously there was nothing that she could do, but Lester Terabon rose
instantly.

"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 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