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He saw skiffs, motorboats, shanty-boats pulling hastily down the slough into the Mississippi. It was the Exodus of Sin. Mendova's rectitude had asserted its strength and power, and now the exits of the city were flickering with the shadows of departing hordes of the night and of the dark, all of whom had two fears: one of daylight, the other of sudden death.
Just after dawn, while the rising sun was flashing through the tree tops from east to west, a motorboat driving up stream hailed as it passed. "Ai-i-i, Prebol! Palura's killed up!" Prebol shouted out for details, and the passer-by, slowing down, gave a few more: "Had trouble with the police, an' they shot him daid into his own dance floor and Mendova's no good no more!"
Mendova's all right, but wait'll we've hunted Yankee Bar." The money burned in their pockets, but as they stood looking out at the long, beautiful Yankee Bar its appeal went home. For more than a hundred years generations of pirates had used there, and no one knows how many tragedies have left their stain in the great band around from Gold Dust Landing to Chickasaw Bluffs No. 1.
He went up town with Carline, who found a cotton broker, a timber merchant, and others who knew him. It was easy to draw a check, have it cashed, and Carline once more had ready money. Nothing would do but they must go around to Palura's to see Mendova's great attraction for travellers.
They knew the Committee of 100 would make him their next chief and a man under whom it would be a credit to be a cop. Terabon, just before dawn, returned toward Mousa Slough. As he did so, from a dull corner a whisper greeted him: "Say, Terabon, is it straight, Palura killed up?" "Sure thing!" "Then Mendova's sure gone to hell!" Hilt Despard the river pirate cried.
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