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Updated: June 28, 2025
Yo' boys are tired; I'll give him his medicine till to'd mornin'. Yo'd jes' soon, Prebol?" "Hit'd be friendly," Prebol admitted. "Yo' needn't to sit right yeah " "I 'low I shall," Rasba nodded. "I got some readin' to do. I'll git my book, an' come back an' set yeah!" He brought his Bible, and looking up to bid the two good-night, he smiled.
I knew they was comin'. They got three four boats now. One feller, name of Prebol he's bad, too was shot by a lady above Cairo. He's with a coupla gamblers to Caruthersville now. Everybody stops yeah; I know everybody; everybody knows me."
He objected to being prayed over and the good of his soul inquired into but this Parson Rasba was making the idea interesting. They anchored for the night in the eddy at the head of Needham's Cut-Off Bar, and Prebol was soon asleep, but Rasba sat under the big lamp and read. He could read with continuity now; dread that the dream would vanish no longer afflicted him.
After supper we'll bring some books over here and talk about them!" "My supper is all ready, keeping warm in the oven," Rasba said. "I always cook enough for one more than there is. Yo' know, a vacant chair at the table for the Stranger." "And I came?" she laughed. "An' yo' came, Missy!" he replied. "Parson," Prebol pleaded, "I'm alone mos' the time. Mout yo' two eat hyar on my bo't?
"My name's Prebol," the man said, "Jest Prebol. I live on Old Mississip'! I live anywhere, down by N'Orleans, Vicksburg everywhere! I'm a grafter, I am " "A grafter?" Rasba repeated the strange word. "Yas, suh, cyards, an' tradin' slum, barberin' mebby, an' mebby some otheh things. I can sell patent medicine to a doctor, I can! I clean cisterns, an' anything." "You gamble?"
Course, I got to get you cured up an' took cyar of first." "I cayn't say much about being pious on Old Mississip'," Prebol grinned, "but theh's two ways of findin' trouble. One's to set still long enough, and then, again, you can go lookin' fo' hit. Course, yo' know me! I've hunted trouble pretty fresh, an' I've found hit, an' I've lived onto hit.
Rasba, studying the hard sand, soon found the prints of bare feet, and he knew that Prebol had taken his departure precipitately, but the reason why was not so apparent to the man who had read many a wild turkey track, deer runway, and trails of other game.
I bet yo' sing out loud sometimes?" "Hit's so," Rasba admitted. "I sung right smart comin' down the Ohio. Seems like I jest wanted to sing, like birds in the posey time." "Prebol shore should git to a doctor, shot up thataway. He didn't say which lady shot him, Parson?" a woman asked. "No; jes' a lady into an eddy into a lonesome bend." Rasba shook his head.
She had seen Gus Carline stumble into her cabin, and with angry defiance she had acted with the intention of doing to him what she had done to Prebol but she had missed deliberately when she shot. When she recalled the matter, she saw that for weeks she had been living in a false frame of mind; that she was desperate, and not contented; that she was afraid and that she hated fear.
"Howdy!" he nodded, touching his cap respectfully, and gazing with flickering eyes at the woman whose marksmanship entitled her to the greatest respect. "Howdy!" she nodded, scrutinizing him with level eyes. "Where am I?" "Yankee Bar. Them's Chickasaw Bluffs No. 1." "Do you know Jest Prebol?" "Yessum." Despard's head bobbed in alarmed, unwilling assent.
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