“He ain’t gonna be down for long, Finn,” says Jim, kind of sharp. “Don’t you know what he is? Why he…”
“It’s Mister Finn, to you, boy!” says Pap, raising his voice. “And don’t you forget it! And don’t you forget you’ve got a price on your head…”
“An’ don’t you forget you ain’t got no gun no mo’, Finn!” says Jim with a growl. “An’ don’t forget you’re in my skiff an’ I can tip you out any time I please – would do now if you warn’t Huck’s pap.”
“This warn’t your skiff till you stole it,” says Pap. “So it’s as much mine as yours – any fool can steal a skiff, and…”
“I didn’t mean Injun Joe,” says Tom, raising his voice ’bove both that pair – which is so unusual it quiets ’em for a moment. “I meant Joe. Joe Harper. Didn’t you see him in the wave? Where’s he now?”
“I didn’t see nothing,” mutters Pap.
“Well, I did,” says Jim. “Yes, Marse Tom, he was there in the wave, all right. But where’s he at now? That’s a good question.”
We have another look round.
“That him?” says Pap, pointing out into the night, towards the shore. “Reckon I’m ’bout the only body in this boat any good at spotting things. You’re lucky to have me! Say, boy,” says he, shouting now: “What you doing out there?”
He was getting to his feet in front of us, that’s what; rising up out of the mud and water. Blocking our path, his eyes glinting mean in the moonlight. Joe Harper, large as life. (Only dead. Which was how our troubles got started, you recall.) Well, here he is, water and mud and slime dripping off of him, and if looks could kill we’d all be dead, I reckon. He takes a-holt of the stern of the skiff – Pap backs up some – and holds us in place.
“What you done with ’em?” says he. “Got ’em on you, have you?” Then he glances up at Pap. “Need a word with your boy, Mr Finn. All right with you?”
“Sure, sure,” says Pap. “You go right ahead, son.”
Well, Pap didn’t know who or what Joe was, but he warn’t going to let that stop him cowering safe out of the way if he could. Joe swings the stern of the skiff widdershins and it turns a slow circle till the bow’s pointing at him. He takes a-holt of that, then; now it’s time for Tom and me to back up some.
“You’ve been talking to witches, ain’t you?” says Joe. “Got your souls took out, didn’t you? Thought you’d escape by blinding Lady Miz to you, eh? You’ve a nerve, Tom Sawyer, planning to sail out of town right under her nose, her not able to see you – might’ve known you’d try something owdacious!”
“Dern!” says I, whispering to Tom. “That is good thinking.”
“Thought you’d try Big Missouri myself,” says Joe. “That’s more your style, ain’t it? Got aboard and had it all staked out. I was ’most thinking I’d figured it wrong when I heard the shooting and seen you and these fellers out here.” He nods up at Langdon in his tree and the bear at its foot. “Bet you’re pleased to see me, eh? Or would you rather I’d left you to Injun Joe?”
“Why didn’t you, Joseph Harper?” says Jim. Some folks just has to go asking things – it’s ’most like a disease, like Pap and his jug.
“Oh, he can have you,” says Joe. “Injun Joe can do anything he likes with you, Jim. But these two…” And he casts his eye over Tom and me like a net. “…these two’ve got to be drownded, drownded by Lady Miz herself, else they won’t be hers.”
“So, why’s they still here?” says Jim, kind of soft.
“’Cause Lady Miz needs ’em to have their souls inside when they drown, dern ’em, else she can’t have ’em. A body’s just a chunk of flesh to her without no soul in it.”
Jim laughs.
“Now ain’t that something worth knowing,” says he.
Joe blinks, gaps, and shakes his head.
“Dern you! How’d you make me give that away?” says he.
“Oh, ole Jim knows how to deal with folks like you, Joseph Harper,” says Jim. “Say, this river’s looking awful tired after all that splashing around – guess even Lady Miz has to rest up a time after she does something outrageous. How ’bout you, Joe Harper? You feeling tired? I’ll bet you are, chile. Don’t you want to rest now? Jus’ lie down in this here mud an’ rest yo’self? Why sure you do…”
“Don’t go trying that agin,” says Joe. Though it’s true – he does look kind of tired, like Lady Miz can’t stoke him up as much as before. “I’ll keep you here till she’s rested – or d’you fancy wading through her and seeing what happens?”
“Keep us here?” says Jim. “No, don’t think so. Think I’ll head downstream, like I planned – Petersburg’s got too interestin’ for me.” And he pulls up a paddle from the bottom of the skiff and starts paddling. “What d’you think, Mr Finn? You gonna give ole Jim a hand?”
Pap looks around at the river and the mud and Joe, rubbing his scratchy chin; then we hear a grunt and a cough behind us and all eyes turn to see that dead, shot, drownded Injun Joe-bear starting to stir.
“Yep!” Pap snatches up the other paddle and starts working it. “Reckon that’s a good idea, boy – I ain’t too proud to paddle a boat. Lively now!”
And it’s like Jim ’spected – Joe can’t stop us from moving, even though he leans agin the skiff and strains and cusses. Him and that river’re too weak to stop us just now. We slide past him, his fingers dragging along the gunwales, but he can barely even slow us. Another time Tom and me might’ve gloated some at getting one over on Joe, but this don’t seem the moment. ’Stead we just keep a watchful eye on him till we’re out o’reach, case he makes a grab for our faces, like he done with Jim. When he sees he can’t do nothing he goes charging through the water to that bear and gives it a kick.
“Come on you, Injun Joe, make yourself useful now!” says he. He gives it a kick agin and that bear looks up and starts taking an interest in life. “They’re getting away!” says Joe. “You want ’em dead, I want ’em dead. I got it figured: you get yourself after ’em and half kill ’em. That’ll make ’em pour their souls back in lively, I’ll lay. Soon as they’ve done that, me and Lady Miz’ll take over and drown ’em. Deal? Speak up now – you ain’t getting no help from me in that river lessen you do!”
The bear looms up over Joe and gives a bellow that parts his hair, its eyes glowing like coals – saw ’em plain. Then it drops back down on all fours.
Then comes a grunt from deep in its throat.
“Deal!” it says.
“Well, come on then,” says Joe. “Do something, why don’t you?”
The bear paces from side to side a moment, splashing through the water (which is still ’bout waist height), bobbing its head and staring after us all hateful. Then it starts a-shaking and a-howling and keels over backwards agin the tree and starts thrashing and thrashing, churning up the water and the mud. It’s fearful – even Joe skips back a-ways. Pap and Jim was paddling canoe-style, rather than rowing, so they was looking the way they was going, with their backs to the shore – but, even so, they know something’s up.
“What’s he doing now, Huckleberry?” says Pap, looking back over his shoulder and missing his stroke. “What’s that bandit up to now, eh?”
“You jus’ keep paddlin’ an’ doan mind him,” says Jim. “Don’t go lookin’ neither – won’t cheer you up none!”
He was right there – Lord, was he ever!
“He’s… he’s turning into something else,” says Tom. “What is that? Oh, my – a catfish!”
Kind of catfish you might net if you went trawling Hell, I reckon. We could see parts of the creature lifting out of the water and splashing back down agin – fins, tail, scales. But he didn’t change all at once – no, it looked kind of slow and painful, ’cause that thing was still half bear, with fur and claws and snout. Half catfish, half bear. Don’t go picturing it to yourself – warn’t pretty.
Well, it took some effort, a body twisting itself up like that, trying to lift itself, then falling back down
agin.
That feller Langdon’s looking pretty sick, hanging onto a tree branch and watching what’s happening underneath him.
“Lord, it’s been a strange night tonight, and that’s a fact,” says he, kind of to the world in general.
“Ain’t it, though!” says Joe Harper.
Then that bear-fish lifts itself up on a tail and a paw ’fore crashing back down agin, ’gainst the tree. There’s a crack, the tree shudders, then the whole thing tips over sideways and lands headfirst in the creek – carries Langdon, hollering, with it too, all tangled up in the branches. The tree disappears out of sight, roots and all – so that was it for him, I guess.
“Ain’t it, though!” says Joe agin, shaking his head.
I watch till we’re so far out in the Miz I can’t see that horribleness.
“Guess your hairball knows its business after all, Jim,” says I. “That reminds me…”
I fetch it out of my pocket and hold it toward him; Pap makes a grab for it, but I pull it back sharp. Then Jim reaches for it too, half-raising his paddle with his t’other hand, ready to lam Pap.
“I got things to ask it,” says Pap. “’Portant things.”
“That so,” says Jim, taking a-holt of it and hanging it safe round his neck once more. “What you got to ask it?”
“Oh, just where Injun Joe keeps his loot, that’s all – but, no, guess that’s of no interest to you, you being so rich ’n’ all, and your prospects so good.”
Jim’s hand lingers on the hairball a moment and a little light flickers ’cross his eyes – Tom’s too, ’cause treasure was always nuts to Tom.
“Well, mebbe I’ll ask it later when you ain’t here no mo’!” says Jim.
“You do that,” says Pap, turning back to his paddling, kind of huffy. “Don’t reckon I need it anyways, reckon I’ve got it figured.”
“Oh, yes,” says Jim, giving a snort. “So where does Injun Joe keep his loot?”
And then we hear Pap’s voice and the hairball spirit answer together: “McDougal’s Cave!”
Then Pap and Jim glance at each other – and they’ve each got a hard, tight-mouthed grin on their faces, and their eyes is shining.
My eyes? Guess I’m rolling ’em as I realise we ain’t going straight down the river after all.
Chapter 10: Big Missouri
McDougal’s Cave was one of Petersburg’s sights. Whenever somebody was entertaining their folks from out of town, sooner or later somebody’d suggest taking ’em along to gape at it (there not being a whole lot in the town worth gaping at, ’cept the river – and most visitors would’ve seen their fill of that on the way in). But McDougal’s Cave was interesting. Dangerous too – it had that in common with the Miz. Word “cave” don’t do it justice: “cavern” maybe, or “caverns” – ’cause it went on forever, good as. All sorts of chambers and rooms and passages opening out and leading off of one another. Some reaching high above your head – high as a church spire, some; so high you couldn’t see the top if you only had a candle with you. Others closed down so narrow you’d think you was headed for a dead end till you squeezed yourself through and found yourself in another cave big as a barn with more passages leading off of it. Regular maze it was, those passages all twisting this way and that, going up and down, narrowing in and widening out till you wouldn’t know where you was unless you had the sense to chalk the walls or such. And all this in the pitchest black; black so black it made tar look like sunlight. And nothing to guide you but the light you brung in yourself. Only a fool’d go farther in than the first chamber without at least a candle and something to light it with (’cause it’d go out certain, sooner or later, ’cause of the little breezes that moved around in there, and the dripping water and the damp walls and such). Plenty of fools had gone exploring in there – never seen agin, mostly (though sometimes they’d stagger out weeks later, half-blind, half-mad, and half-starved – like skeletons with beards). ’Most everybody in Petersburg had been in McDougal’s Cave some time or other, but it was still plenty big ’nuff to hide ’most anything in without it being found. It was ’bout three mile south of town; not far at all.
Anyway, Pap and Jim had plenty to talk ’bout all of a sudden, now treasure was glittering on the horizon – wouldn’t’er thought it possible before.
“So, how much d’you reckon he’s got stashed?” says Jim.
“Oh, slathers, certain,” says Pap. “He’s been getting away with all kind of things these past ten years. ‘Getting away with murder,’ as they say – only with him it’s true, you seen that fer yourself. Stands to reason that if you’re gonna turn your hand to ev’ry kind of evil you’re gonna pile up the cash – if not, then what’s the point? And Injun Joe’s so evil I don’t reckon you could figure up what he’s worth by now.” Pap pauses in his paddling and casts another look toward Jim, kind of hungry. “Though maybe that charm o’ yourn knows… we can ask it later. If it knows even that, well, then, that’s a thing worth having, all right, boy.”
Jim shifts a little and tucks the hairball back inside his shirt.
“Don’t call me ‘boy’,” he mutters. “An’ keep paddlin’ – he’ll be after us soon ’nuff. An’ he might have figured we’d ask it ’bout his loot.”
“You’re right,” says Pap. “That’s the kind of thing he would figure – nasty, suspicious mind like his.”
“Then he’ll know where we’re headed, won’t he,” says Tom, piping up, wanting in on this treasure-hunting thing.
“You hush up, boy,” says Pap sharp, ’most like we was at home (back when we had one). “Folks is talking… wait a minute, you’re right, dern it! He’ll go to McDougal’s Cave straight, make sure his loot is safe and lay for us. Don’t think he’ll risk going back to Petersburg after this – way he’s been carrying on the whole town’ll know ’bout him soon ’nuff. No, he’ll grab his gold and light out for the territory – or go all the way downriver and take ship in New Orleans. Or skip over the border to Texas or west to California or south to Mexico proper. That’s what I’d do!”
“Well, it ain’t worth goin’, ’less we get there ahead of him,” says Jim. “Don’t care how much gold he’s got if I get killed liftin’ it.”
“It’s a puzzler, all right,” says Pap. “D’you reckon he’ll outrun us?”
“He was turning into a fish, last I saw,” says I. “Fish goes faster’n skiff – and that’s a fact. And what a fish!”
“But if he’s faster’n us he won’t need to lay for us at McDougal’s Cave, will he?” says Tom. “’Cause he’ll catch us on the river.”
“We’d best lay on some paddling, then,” says Jim.
“Well, lay it on thick,” says I. “’Cause here he comes!”
Couldn’t none of ’em help but look when I said that, dern it. There he was, Injun Joe, all fished-up by now – least seven foot long if he was an inch – streaking through the water just below the surface, a long line of white foam stretching all the way back to where he’d launched hisself from the shore.
“Lord, he is fast,” says Jim.
“He’ll sink us certain,” says Pap. “He’s most as big as this boat!”
Then we heard a whistling that turned our heads t’other way.
“Big Missouri!” says Tom, half-standing and pointing. That steamboat had been pushed so far toward the Illinois shore by the Miz’s fooling that we’d got ahead of her. She was laying on some speed now, though; don’t reckon the pilot or captain knew what in the world was going on – only that they wanted to get out of them waters fast before anything like it happened agin. “Don’t bother paddling downstream,” says Tom. “See how sluggish the river’s running – all tired out, like Jim said. And Injun Joe’d catch us anyhow. Illinois shore’s too far and he can get ’twixt us and the Missouri shore easy as pie. Only chance is to turn straight across Big Missouri’s path.”
“To block him?” says Pap.
“No,” says Tom. “He’s a fish now, ain’t he? Boat can’t bl
ock that, he’ll just dive under. But we’ve got to get out of his sight long enough for him not to see what we’re about.”
“Which is what now, Marse Tom?” says Jim, kind of uneasy, looking back over his shoulder, fitful, as he paddles.
“We’ve got to get ourselves a couple of feet past the larboard paddle wheel,” says Tom, “Then line ourselves up with it, then hold steady as Big Missouri comes right up to us, and then…”
“Then?” says Jim.
“Then we’ve got to jump for the wheel guard, grab a-holt and climb up to the deck.”
“Jump?” says Pap. “You crazy, boy? You want to get chewed up by a paddle wheel?”
“You want to get chewed up by a man-size catfish?” says Jim, jerking his head backwards. There’s a line of froth like mad dog spittle tearing through the water, with two bulging fish eyes poking half out and a fin sticking up. That pretty much settled it; Pap’s and Jim’s arms was just blurs after that, working the paddles for all they was worth. I would’ve helped, but didn’t seem much I could do, there being no more paddles.
“No, aim for the boat,” says Tom, “not away – we’ve got to cut it fine. Shoot past the bow, get alongside the wheel, then jump before Injun Joe breaks surface – he won’t know what we’re doing till then. There won’t be time for a second chance though.”
“Lord, I should say that’s cuttin’ it fine,” says Jim. “Finer’n ham for a church picnic.”
“Saw the corpse of a feller got chewed up by a paddle wheel once,” says Pap, muttering kind of low. “He come ashore couple of mile south of here… least, parts of him did. Warn’t pretty!” Pap looks round us for a moment like he’s ’specting an argument; he don’t get one.
Me? I was staring at Big Missouri, getting closer and larger. The starboard paddle wheel was looking awful big; I’m studying it close, turning it round in my head and trying to figure the best spot to spring for. Ever seen a paddle wheel? If you don’t live near the Miz, maybe you ain’t – though I ’spect they’ve got ’em on other rivers. Ohio and such. Well, now: you picture a box ’bout the size of a house – a regular town house, wood built, two storeys. It don’t have a regular roof though, this house, neither flat nor pointed, like most houses got; ’stead it’s got a big curved arch, like half a circle. Now, picture two of those boxes, one nailed to each side of a pretty large steamboat like Big Missouri. Well, inside each of those boxes is a paddle wheel. What’s a paddle wheel? ’Bout what it sounds like, that’s all: couple of great hoops, like cartwheels, but ’most as big as a house, and ’twixt those hoops you’ve got the paddles – wooden boards (or metal) longer’n a man’s tall and broader too, laid sidelong. There’s dozens of them. It’s a grand sight, watching a paddle wheel churn the water, turning it white, like eggs getting beat in a bowl, and sending that steamer racing along – thing so big you can’t hardly believe it don’t sink. That’s a sight, I reckon!
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