CHAPTER XV

As he descended, Tad could see the levee, below, and half a mile to the northward the huddled houses of Natchez-under-the-Hill. There was the big steamboat landing, piled with freight, and beyond it the swarming flatboat fleet, so close, now, that he almost fancied he could pick out the little _Katy Roby_ at her moorings.

Clinging by roots and creepers, sliding from one grass tuft to the next, the boy went swiftly down. At the foot of the steep slope was a narrow marshy tract hemmed in by the levee. There was no road except the footway along the levee top, but a few shanties were scattered here and there--the cabins of free negroes, Tad thought--and among the evil-looking pools of green water, paths ran from one clump of great mossy live oaks to the next. He followed one of these, skirting a stagnant pond where the whole surface was covered with a weedy scum. An alligator moved lazily, thrusting up its long snout within a yard of Tad’s heel, and great swarms of mosquitoes rose on all sides to meet him. He broke into a run.

Beyond the first clump of trees he passed the door of a squalid shack where dogs yapped at his heels and a frightened black woman wrapped her skirts about a child that screamed when it saw him. After he had driven the curs away with a stick, he went on more slowly. The morning was growing hot, and a desperate thirst possessed him. He thought of stopping at one of the negro cabins and asking for a drink, but the sight of the unspeakable filth around them decided him against it. After all, he was almost there. He could stand another ten minutes.

As he neared the town, the path ran through a dense clump of scrub willows that reached from the levee almost back to the foot of the bluff. Tad prudently slipped into this willow thicket as he drew close to the landing, and squirmed forward till he could command a view of the big dock, the street, and the flatboats beyond. His first glance told him it was lucky he had reconnoitered. For in addition to the handful of negroes who were rolling bales and barrels in the sleepy sunshine, he saw three horses tied to the rail before a corner tavern, and three men with hats pulled low over their faces, lounging in the shadows. One sat on the tavern veranda, watching the street. One patrolled the landing in leisurely fashion. And one stood idly under a tree with his eye on the movements of the flatboatmen.

If Murrell was one of them--and Tad thought the tall figure on the landing was he--he had changed horses since daybreak. The famous three-stocking sorrel was not among the mounts at the hitching-rail.

All this was a blow to Tad’s hopes. Where he had expected to reach the haven of the _Katy Roby_ in another moment or two, he saw that he might now have to wait for hours. His thirst was becoming almost unbearable. The whole inside of his mouth and his tongue felt parched and swollen. Mosquitoes in myriads came to sing their shrill refrain around his head, and other pests, he knew, would soon discover his hiding-place.

At last he could stand the torture of sitting still no longer. He got to his feet, peering through the willow branches. There, not a hundred yards away, he could see Allen standing on the forward deck of the flatboat, smoking his pipe and looking up the town’s main street as if he were waiting for some one.

If only he could signal him in some way! But there were the three grim watchers--desperate men, as Tad knew--who would not hesitate to use their pistols with a fifty-thousand-dollar prize in sight. It might cost his friends their lives if he showed himself.

He had thought of swimming under the landing, but there would still be a sixty-foot stretch of water to cross under the hawk eyes of that tall man, slouching in the shade of a pile of boxes. Still, he reflected, he could hardly be worse off in the water than dying a slow death by thirst and mosquitoes here.

Very quietly he made his way through the willows to the levee. The piling of the dock rose close by--almost close enough to touch. On his stomach, he crawled over the top of the embankment and slid like a muskrat into the yellow water beyond. In a few quick strokes he was under the landing and hidden from view.

He held on to one of the big cypress piles and gulped a swallow or two of river water to take the edge off his thirst. Then he made his way forward under the shadowy planking of the wharf.

Suddenly there was a shout, somewhere above, and a pounding of many feet that went by over his head, shaking dust down through the cracks. He stayed where he was, his heart beating fast. Then there came the loud blast of a steamboat whistle, and he understood the reason for the stampede.

Alternately swimming and stopping to listen, he made his way to the outer end of the wharf. There, holding to one of the great clumps of mooring piles, he watched the slim white prow of the pride of the river--the _Natchez_ herself--come sweeping in to the landing. With a swiftness at which he marveled, the great paddles swung her into position, and amid the shouts of deck hands he heard the heavy cable drop with a crash on the planks over his head. In another moment the big steamer was moored, side-on to the wharf, and the gangplanks were run out. The steady rumble of loading began.

From where Tad was he could see forward under the broad overhanging deck of the _Natchez_ to the low patch of daylight at her bows. And as he looked, an idea came to him. He remembered how the forward end of the _Tecumseh_, jutting well beyond the landing, had seemed to be almost within arm’s reach of the flatboat, that first morning in Natchez. Under the shelter of the steamer, he could get many feet closer to his goal without being seen.

He let go of the post to which he had been holding, and swam out under the boat’s deck. It was like being in a long, low-roofed, watery tunnel. The deck was only two or three feet above the level of the river and was built out from the hull a good ten feet. It was shored up by a row of diagonal braces, and to these Tad clung, pulling himself slowly along. When he reached the end of the wharf he could see that his hopes were at least partly justified. The steamer’s prow extended at least thirty feet nearer to the moored flatboats, and he was certain that for the best part of that distance he would be well hidden from eyes on the landing.

Keeping as far as possible under the projecting shelf, he pulled himself forward by the bracing timbers. Finally he came to a point where the deck narrowed rapidly toward the bow and no longer afforded any cover. As nearly as he could judge, about fifteen yards still separated him from the _Katy Roby_. He was close enough to see every homely plank and seam of the little craft, even to the familiar marks of Abe’s mighty ax on the hewn corner posts.

A sudden fear seized him now--a fear that Abe or Allen might appear at the gunwale and see him. That would be dangerous, he knew.

Obviously, he could not stay where he was. Something had to be done, and done at once. With desperation in his heart, the boy again measured the distance to the flatboat, then drew a deep breath, and took off from the steamer’s side in a long plunge. He had swum under water many times before, but never when he was so tired, or with so much at stake.

Five strokes he took--ten--twelve, with his lungs ready to burst for air--thirteen--fourteen--fifteen--sixteen--he _must_ come up--seventeen--eighteen, and his hand touched planks! He was there, safe under the flatboat’s counter. For a moment he lay with mouth and nose just out of water, gasping in the breaths he so sorely needed. A stray end of rope, hanging from the stern, gave him something to hold on to.

From the tall, white _Natchez_ there came a jangle of bells and a thrashing of the water as her paddles turned over. This was Tad’s chance. All eyes would be on the steamer for the next minute or two. He took a firm grip on the rope and went up with a kick of his feet. At the gunwale he had just strength enough left to fling up a leg and pull himself over. Five seconds later he rolled over the edge of the after deck and dropped without ceremony into the middle of Allen’s preparations for dinner.

If Tad had not instantly signaled him to silence it is certain that the _Katy Roby’s_ cook would have yelled aloud in terror. As it was he toppled over backward on the planking and sat there looking comically pale.

“Great--hallelujah--fishhooks!” he choked out, at last. “I shore never looked to see your face ag’in, boy! How in Tarnation did ye git away?”

“I’ll tell you--pretty soon,” grinned Tad, still too weary to talk. “Where’s Abe?”

“Up thar in the town--Natchez-’top-o’-the-Hill,” said Allen. “He’s been tryin’ to git ’em to send a sheriff’s posse arter you. But gosh, boy, look at them feet!”

Tad was bleeding from half a dozen cuts and bruises that he had got in the course of his flight. Until now he had not even noticed them. His shirt was in tatters, and even the stout homespun trousers, in addition to being heavy with mud and water, had been torn in several places. Gaunt with hunger and fatigue and wet as a drowned kitten, he looked little like his usual sturdy self.

But Poke knew him. The gangling baby bear stretched his chain as far as it would go and licked with a warm pink tongue at Tad’s face. Chuckling with delight, the boy rolled over to scratch his pet’s inquisitive round ears. And at that moment a long shadow fell across the deck and they heard the tread of moccasined feet.

Abe, still frowning and preoccupied with the business that had taken him ashore, dropped down from the fore deck and almost stepped on Tad before he saw him.

“Wal, I’ll be--” he began. But his vocabulary, for once, was totally inadequate to the occasion.

“Quick, Abe!” Tad implored him. “Get down here out of sight, if you’re going to look like that. There’s three of Murrell’s men watching on the landing.”

The big Hoosier crouched obediently, but Allen started up with an oath. “Whar’s that gun o’ mine?” he asked in a belligerent tone.

“Hold on,” said Abe. “Don’t be a dum fool, Allen. This is no time to git mixed up in a fight. Now we’ve got Tad back, our job is to take him out o’ here safe. Let’s see, now--Tad, you’d best crawl in under the edge o’ that tarpaulin, jest in case o’ trouble.

“Allen, you act unconcerned-like, an’ go on gittin’ some dinner together. I’m goin’ to shove off. Wait, now, till I git to lookin’ glum ag’in.”

With a comical effort, he twisted his gaunt face into a heavy frown.

“That ought to fool ’em,” he muttered, and stood up, with a dejected stoop to his shoulders. Slowly he mounted the forward deck, swung over in a long stride to the next craft, and so reached the mooring-stakes along the levee. As he cast off the rope and proceeded slowly to coil it over his arm, a keel-boat man hailed him, three or four boats away.

“What’s up, Longshanks? Gwine to leave without the youngster?” he asked.

Abe shrugged his shoulders. “’Tain’t no use to try any more,” he replied, gloomily. “They’re all afraid to move, up in the town. I reckon we might better be gittin’ our cargo to market.”

“Yeah,” agreed the other, and spat over the rail. “It’s tough luck, though. ‘Good-by, five thousand dollars,’ eh?”

An angry blaze lit Abe’s gray eyes. He started to speak, then changed his mind. Dropping the coil of rope on the fore deck, he picked up one of the rowing-sweeps and planted it on firm bottom. Then with a heave of his mighty shoulders, he drove the _Katy Roby_ straight out from the levee.

As the current caught them they were swung close to the corner piles of the wharf. Abe put his oars in the chocks and began rowing, strongly but without haste.

“Keep hid, now,” came Allen’s whisper. “Thar’s a feller watchin’ us up thar on the landin’. Big, tall feller with his hat over his eyes. ’Pears like he’s mighty interested in what we’ve got aboard.”

“Wal,” he called out derisively, “think ye’ll be able to reco’nize us next time?”

There was no answer from the man on the wharf.

“Allen,” said Tad, when they had dropped the landing well astern, “do you know who that was you hailed? I do. It was Jack Murrell.”

Allen’s face went pale. “No-o!” he said, in an awe-stricken whisper. “You don’t tell me--_Murrell_!”

“He’ll recognize you, all right,” Tad could not help chuckling. “He never forgets a face.”

But as the boy rose from his place under the tarpaulin and looked astern, he wondered if perhaps his jest had been ill-timed. At the hitching-rail in front of the water-front saloon he could see three men mounting their horses. They turned, in a swirl of dust, as he watched, and spurred away up the town’s main street toward the bluff. And wherever they were going, they evidently meant business.