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Updated: May 19, 2025
An' theh she ups an' shoots me like a dawg. She's mean, that woman, mean an' pretty, too, like some women is!" Rasba wondered. He had been long enough on the Ohio to get the feeling of a great river. He saw the specious pleading of the wounded wretch, and his quick imagination pictured the woman alone in a vast, wild wood, at the edge of that running mile-wide flood.
She dumped them onto the table, leather, cloth, and board covers, of red, blue, gray, brown, and other gay colours. Parson Rasba had seen government documents and even some magazines with picture covers, but in the mountains where he had ridden his Big Circuit with such a disastrous end he had never seen such books.
It was a curious conceit, and Elijah Rasba, while he smiled at the humour of it, was at the same time conscious of its sad truth. Her presence on the river meant no good for any one; Prebol was but one of her victims; perhaps he was the least unfortunate of them all!
He welcomed her as a father might have welcomed a favourite child. He threw over the anchor, and Terabon dropped the launch back to the stern, and hung it there on a light line. When he entered the big cabin Nelia was sitting beside a table, and Rasba was leaning against the shelves which he had put up for the books. Nelia, dumbfounded, had said little or nothing.
"Jock Drones. Don't yo' know me?" "Jock Drones?" Rasba cried, staring. "Why, Sho! Hit is! Lawse an' I found yo' right yeah thisaway!" "Yassuh," Jock turned away under that bright gaze, "but I'm goin' back, Parson! I'm goin' back to stand trial, suh!
Three men had been killed, five wounded and a dozen become fugitives from justice at the end of the church service. Elijah Rasba fled homeward, his will and hopes broken, and sank dejectedly into a slough of despondency. All his good intentions, all the inspiration of his endeavour, his very spiritual exaltation had terminated in a tragedy, as inexplicable as it was depressing.
She laughed as she recalled the deprecatory little man who had preached in the church she had occasionally attended. She compared the trim, bird-like perspicuity and wing-flap gestures of Rev. Mr. Beeve with the slow, huge turn and stand-fast of Parson Rasba.
They could do no better than let him know that they hadn't any hard feelings against him, even if he was a parson, for he didn't let on that they were sinners. Anyway, they wanted to hear him hit it up! "I came down here to find a son whose mother was worrited about him," Rasba began at the beginning.
Then he heard that answer. "Rasba!" he heard. "Parson Elijah Rasba, suh. Out of the Ohio!" In a flash he knew the truth! Old Rasba, whose preaching he had listened to that bloody night away up in the mountains, had come down the rivers. A parson, none else, was camping on the mountain fugitive's trail.
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.
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