such a night as this, when it’s likely to break up and wash off down the river any minute?’ Jim couldn’t say nothing to that, so he didn’t try. ‘And besides,’ I says, ‘we might borrow something worth having, out of the captain’s stateroom. Seegars, I bet you—and cost five cents apiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is always rich, and gets sixty dollars a month, and they don’t care a cent what a thing costs, you know, long as they want it. Stick a candle in your pocket; I can’t rest, Jim, till we give her a rummaging. Do you reckon Tom Sawyer would ever go by this thing? Not for pie, he wouldn’t. He’d call it an adventure—that’s what he’d call it; and he’d land on that wreck if it was his last act. And wouldn’t he throw style into it?—wouldn’t he spread himself, nor nothing? Why, you’d think it was Christopher C’lumbus discovering Kingdom-Come. I wish Tom Sawyer was here.’
Jim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we mustn’t talk any more than we could help, and then talk mighty low. The lightning showed us the wreck again, just in time, and we fetched the stabboard derrick, and made fast there.
The deck was high out, here. We went sneaking down the slope of it to labboard, in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way slow with our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for it was so dark we couldn’t see no sign of them. Pretty soon we struck the forward end of the skylight, and clumb on to it; and the next step fetched us in front of the captain’s door, which was open, and by Jimminy, away down through the texas hall we see a light! and all in the same second we seemed to hear low voices in yonder!
Jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and told me to come along. I says, all right; and was going to start for the raft; but just then I heard a voice wail out and say:
‘Oh, please, don’t, boys: I swear I won’t ever tell!’ Another voice said, pretty loud:
‘It’s a lie, Jim Turner. You’ve acted this way before. You always want more ’n your share of the truck, and you’ve always got it, too, because you’ve swore’t if you didn’t you’d tell. But this time you’ve said it jest one time too many. You’re the meanest, treacherousest hound in this country.’
By this time Jim was gone for the raft. I was just a-biling with curiosity; and I says to myself, Tom Sawyer wouldn’t back out now, and so I won’t either; I’m a-going to see what’s going on here. So I dropped on my hands and knees, in the little passage, and crept aft in the dark, till there warn’t but about one stateroom betwixt me and the cross-hall of the texas. Then, in there I see a man stretched on the floor and tied hand and foot, and two men standing over him, and one of them had a dim lantern in his hand, and the other one had a pistol. This one kept pointing the pistol at the man’s head on the floor and saying:
‘I’d like to! And I orter, too, a mean skunk!’
The man on the floor would shrivel up, and say, ‘Oh, please don’t, Bill—I hain’t ever goin’ to tell.’
And every time he said that, the man with the lantern would laugh, and say:
‘Deed you aint! You never said no truer thing ’n that, you bet you.’ And once he said, ‘Hear him beg! and yit if we hadn’t got the best of him and tied him, he’d a killed us both. And what for? Jist for noth’n. Jist because we stood on our rights—that’s what for. But I lay you ain’t a-goin’ to threaten nobody any more, Jim Turner. Put up that pistol, Bill.’
Bill says:
‘I don’t want to, Jake Packard. I’m for killin’ him—and didn’t he kill old Hatfield jist the same way—and don’t he deserve it?’
‘But I don’t want him killed, and I’ve got my reasons for it.’
‘Bless yo’ heart for them words, Jake Packard! I’ll never forgit you, long’s I live!’ says the man on the floor, sort of blubbering.
Packard didn’t take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on a nail, and started towards where I was, there in the dark, and motioned Bill to come. I crawfished as fast as I could, about two yards, but the boat slanted so that I couldn’t make very good time; so to keep from getting run over and catched I crawled into a stateroom on the upper side. The man come a-pawing along in the dark, and when Packard got to my stateroom, he says:
‘Here—come in here.’
And in he came, and Bill after him. But before they got in, I was up in the berth, cornered, and sorry I came. Then they stood there, with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. I couldn’t see them, but I could tell where they was, by the whisky they’d been having. I was glad I didn’t drink whisky; but it wouldn’t made much difference, anyway, because most of the time they couldn’t a tree’d me because I didn’t breathe. I was too scared. And besides, a body couldn’t breathe, and hear such talk. They talked low and earnest. Bill wanted to kill Turner. He says:
‘He’s said he’ll tell, and he will. If we was to give both our shares to him now, it wouldn’t make no difference after the row, and the way we’ve served him. Shore’s you’re born, he’ll turn State’s evidence; now you hear me. I’m for putting him out of his troubles.’
‘So’m I,’ says Packard, very quiet.
‘Blame it, I’d sorter begun to think you wasn’t. Well, then, that’s all right. Le’s go and do it.’
‘Hold on a minute; I ain’t had my say yit. You listen to me. Shooting’s good, but there’s quieter ways if the thing’s got to be done. But what I say, is this; it ain’t good sense to go court’n around after a halter, if you can git at what you’re up to in some way that’s jist as good and at the same time don’t bring you into no resks. Ain’t that so?’
‘You bet it is. But how you goin’ to manage it this time?’
‘Well, my idea is this; we’ll rustle around and gether up whatever pickins we’ve overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for shore and hide the truck. Then we’ll wait. Now I say it ain’t a-goin’ to be more ‘n two hours befo’ this wrack breaks up and washes off down the river. See? He’ll be drownded, and won’t have nobody to blame for it but his own self. I reckon that’s a considerable sight better’n killin’ of him. I’m unfavourable to killin’ a man as long as you can git around it; it ain’t good sense, it ain’t good morals. Ain’t I right?’
‘Yes—I reck’n you are. But s’pose she don’t break up and wash off?’
‘Well, we can wait the two hours, anyway, and see, can’t we?’
‘All right, then; come along.’
So they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled forward. It was dark as pitch there; but I said in a kind of coarse whisper, ‘Jim!’ and he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of moan, and I says:
‘Quick, Jim, it ain’t no time for fooling around and moaning; there’s a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we don’t hunt up their boat and set her drifting down the river so these fellows can’t get away from the wreck, there’s one of ’em going to be in a bad fix. But if we find their boat we can put all of ’em in a bad fix—for the sheriff’ll get ’em. Quick—hurry! I’ll hunt the labboard side, you hunt the stabboard. You start at the raft, and—’
‘Oh! my lordy, lordy! Raf’? Dey ain’ no raf’ no
