by Tim Champlin
Directly, they reached the head of the island abreast of the sandbar. Rain was still falling hard, but the initial wind had passed on. Zane hopped out to ground the canoe. He saw the sky had lightened some behind the first line of storms, but now dusk was coming on.
He and Jim dragged the canoe beyond reach of the current, and Zane straightened up, panting. He thought he was in good shape, but the muscles in his shoulders and back felt strained.
They walked up onto the sand, looking around, the rain falling on their soaked clothes, cooling them from the exertion.
“They’re not here, Jim.”
“Dey gots to be. Dere’s de boat.” He pointed at the yawl beached thirty yards away.
“Probably took shelter to wait it out,” Zane said. But he had no wish to plunge into the dripping undergrowth in search of them.
“TOM!” he shouted. “HUCK! Where are you?”
Jim also lifted his deep voice in a yell.
They tried again, walking slowly toward the trees, Zane knowing their shouts had to be heard by anyone within a hundred yards, even through the sound-deadening rain.
“That looks like the hollow tree they were looking for,” Zane said, pointing.
Suddenly he saw movement beneath the leaning tree.
Jim jumped ahead, pistol in hand.
“Jim! Jim!” came a weak voice. A figure in white emerged from beneath the partial shelter of the dead tree and moved toward them.
Jim thrust his gun away into a side pocket. “Becky Thatcher? Is dat you, chile?”
Zane rushed forward to catch her as she stumbled in the wet sand. Her wet blond hair was plastered to her forehead, her frilly white dress hung limp, torn and dirty. She was barefoot.
“My name is Zane,” he said quickly when she turned her blue eyes on him in fear. “A friend of Tom and Huck.”
“They took them,” she said as Jim came up. “Those men took Tom and Huck.”
“Why?” was all Zane could think of to say.
She shook her head, weakly, wiping the rain and clinging hair from her face. “I don’t know. They took the gold and the boys and let me go.”
Zane felt a stab of regret. Why hadn’t he insisted that he and Jim come ashore to guard them? But, if they’d done that, Becky could have been hurt or killed. These men were not fools. They had only traded one hostage for two others. But why?
“We needs to git you outen dis rain,” Jim said. “Zane, you take her under dat dead tree fo a minute whilst I see if dere’s sumpin’ in dat boat we can use for shelter.”
Jim returned in a minute with the rolled-up canvas, and a coil of rope. “De kidnappers must of snatched de food,” Jim said, unrolling the canvas shelter and throwing it over a limb that stuck out from the dead tree. He tied off the flaps of canvas to fashion a tent, of sorts. The three of them stood under it, hearing the pattering of drops and waiting for the storm to pass. Becky began to shiver, hugging herself.
“Heah’s a trot line wid hooks dey missed,” Jim said. “But dey took da ham and canteen and some trifles we put in dere dis mawnin. Musta been in a hurry.”
“I’ll go look again,” Zane said.
He returned with a short axe that had lain hidden under a thwart. But, aside from the oars and the unstepped mast and sail, that was it.
“Ah carries lucifers ah keep dry in candle wax,” Jim said. “But dey can’t start no fires wid nuffin but wet wood.”
“In Boy Scouts I learned how to start a fire with wet wood and no paper,” Zane said. “Look around and see if you can find some dry sticks that were protected from the wet under this mass of brush and leaves.”
He took the short axe, hacked off a limb from the dead tree, and threw it on the sand under the shelter. He scraped aside the wet sand until he was down to the dry. Then he held the limb on end with one hand and hacked at it until he had a small pile of dry shavings from inside the wood.
By then Becky and Jim had returned with two handfuls of twigs that were reasonably dry. He needed some dry grass or paper, but knew he was out of luck on that score. But Jim had a small bundle of dry matches coated in wax, and by strategically arranging the tiny scraps of fuel and dry bark, Zane managed, on the third match, to ignite a tiny flame. By carefully feeding it, they built up a little fire. Zane hacked off another limb from the dead tree, shaved off a layer of the outer surface, split the limb, and eventually started a blaze that could survive on its own.
“Yo’s pooty handy wid dat axe,” Jim said.
“Thanks. One of my few practical skills,” Zane said with pride. He thought of several other talents he had that meant little in the real world of survival—tweeting, texting, manipulating video games, kicking a soccer ball.
As the fire strengthened, they piled more damp wood on, and it sizzled and sputtered and smoked, but gradually dried out and burned. They slid the canvas shelter back a couple of feet to allow the smoke to escape. By then the rain had nearly stopped—and with the coming of dusk, the no-see-ums, mayflies, and mosquitoes took over.
Zane and Jim scraped the wet sand aside to make dry spots to sit, huddling close to the flames to dry their clothing and as close to the smoke as possible to ward off biting insects.
Before darkness settled in completely, Jim took a small dip-net seine from his canoe, and managed to scoop up a few minnows to use as bait for the trot line he set out, floating it with a stick and tying the other end off to a well-anchored bush.
“I’m so glad to see you two,” Becky said, when they were reasonably comfortable, the flames lighting up their faces around the small circle.
“Did those kidnappers torture you?” Zane asked, thinking of stories he’d read about such things.
“No. They didn’t hurt me at all,” she said.
“Where were you all this time?”
“They took me on horseback down the river to an old abandoned house off that way somewhere,” she said, pointing west by north. “The place was dirty and disgusting. But at least it had been empty for so long that there weren’t no rats around—nothing for them to eat, I guess.”
“Did you know these men?” Zane asked.
She shook her head. “They were strangers to me.”
“Did you hear their names?”
She nodded. “They called each other Chigger and Gus. I think Chigger was the short one without the mustache. He was the mean one,” she added.
“Mean? How?”
“He was forever talking about the treasure and what he’d do to Tom and Huck for stealing it from him—that it was really his, and things like that.”
“Well, I’ll be . . . So they were planning all along to turn you loose and grab the boys?”
“I suppose so.”
“If dat don’t beat all!” Jim said.
“Sounds like they wanted the treasure and revenge,” Zane said. “I wonder why they thought the 612,000 was theirs to begin with?” All he recalled about this situation was what he’d garnered from his recent re-reading of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. He had not lived through it as Jim had. But even Jim had not been an active participant, like Tom and Huck.
“Yo didn’t know dis short man?” Jim asked.
“If I ever saw him before, I don’t remember his face,” Becky said, running her fingers absently through her tangled hair. “But I might have seen him around town and never paid any attention.”
Zane remembered he carried a plastic pocket comb and offered it to Becky. She took it with a smile of thanks and began to rake out the snarls.
Zane continued the questions while her memory was fresh. Tom would have been proud of his detection methods.
“Did they ever talk about where they were bound, once they collected the ransom?”
Becky was silent for a few seconds, staring into the fire as she paused in her combing.
“They’d have arguments when they thought I was asleep on that old dirty blanket they gave me for a bed,” she said. “The tall man, Gus, wanted to head for New Orleans and then out of
the country for a while. But Chigger, the short mean one, said he would start west for the gold fields—said it’d be easy to lose himself among all those Argonauts.”
“Dat be pooty smart,” Jim nodded.
“The man with the mustache said he’d be glad to be rid of me because I was so whiny.”
“Did you aggravate them that way?” Zane smiled.
“I did all I could. But I was afraid if I carried it too far, they’d whip me. I never had a whipping in my life and I didn’t want to start now. Tom took the only one I should’ve had in school, and now he’s in their hands.” She blinked away tears that formed in her eyes.
“Did Chigger ever say how he’d treat the boys to take his revenge?” Zane asked. “What he had in mind?”
“Not for sure. He was always saying things like he’d shoot their earlobes off, or pull out their fingernails, or force them to eat habanero peppers, raw, to burn out their insides. He seemed to enjoy thinking up all those tortures. But I didn’t half believe him, and neither did Gus. But Chigger used to brag about the things he planned to do, and laugh like he was already enjoying seeing Tom and Huck hurting.”
They fell silent for a minute or two, entertaining their own thoughts.
Finally Zane said, “Jim, in the morning if you want to hide your canoe on this island we can come back for it later. Tom and Huck left a nice yawl we can either sail or row downriver to St. Louis. Then we’ll try to find Judge Thatcher and Sheriff Stiles so we can take you home, Becky.”
Jim nodded, but Becky was silent for a minute. Then she laid down the comb and said, “I think we should go after those kidnappers right now, without wasting any time. They can’t be too far away. They wouldn’t run downriver in that old leaky flat-bottom boat in the storm. When they were fixin’ to come over to this island, two days ago, they forced me into that old boat and we went off into the swamps and bayous over west of here. Lots of marshes and backwater where the river overflows in those lowlands. They seemed to know where they were headed, and poled that boat to a little dry island, and let me sleep in the boat I was so scared of snakes. The bugs nearly ate me up, but they didn’t seem to mind the bites. Anyway, I’m betting that’s where they went tonight to ride out the storm until tomorrow daylight.”
“Any idea where they might go from there?” Zane asked.
“No. Don’t know if they’ll split up now that they have the treasure. I doubt if they’ll go back to that abandoned house where they held me.”
“Dey won’t let go of de boys if dey figure de law be on dere tail.” Jim said.
“They might each take a boy as a hostage,” Zane guessed.
“That house is so isolated on the edge of the swamp, that we didn’t see a soul the several days I was there,” Becky said. “They might go there and wait until they think the law has lost interest or given up.”
“De law ain’t gonna give up lookin’,” Jim said. “But if dat place be so hard to fine, dat’s sho where dey might hunker down for a spell. Wif all de water roundabout to throw off de hounds, dat be a good place for runaway niggers to hide out, too.”
“That reminds me,” Becky said. “I did hear Gus, the tall man, say something about hunting runaway slaves. And he didn’t talk like Chigger or any other man from around here.”
“Dat make sense,” Jim said. “A slave hunter likely be knowin’ ’bout places like dat ole house. And he knows his way ’round de swamp.”
“If they couldn’t find that house again tonight, they might’ve stopped at the little dry island. That place is so deep in the marsh, I don’t know how they ever located it. But the slave hunter didn’t seem to have any trouble the other day. If they were able to navigate back in that swamp before dark, I suppose they could’ve reached it, even in the rain.”
“We’ll have to wait until morning before we decide what to do and where to go,” Zane said. “I’m thirsty right now,” he added, “but there’s nothing to drink but river water.”
“Dat’s so,” Jim said. “No cups or jugs to carry water nohow.”
“And if you catch any fish on that trot line, we’ll have to put them on sticks over the fire to cook them—like hot dogs.”
“Dat would work, sho ’nuff,” Jim nodded. “Fish is good, but I ain’t ’bout to eat no dog. Mebbe we kin find a spring on dis island.”
“If we’re taking out after them, we can’t waste much time,” Becky said.
“We can’t rush off and get ourselves lost in the swamp,” Zane said. “I want to find them as much as you do, but we should think this through. We have to notify the authorities first and tell what happened, and show ’em you’re safe—especially your father. The law can do a better job than we can of finding them. Maybe the sheriff or somebody will let us tag along on the hunt.” Zane had serious doubts about this, but didn’t voice them. “Do you want to hunt for those criminals yourself? No fooling?” He glanced at her ragged dress and pantaloons, the scratches on her arms and gaunt face. “You’ve been through a lot. You’re in no condition . . .”
“Mister Zane whatever-your-name-is, if I don’t do everything in my power to rescue Tom and Huck, and something bad happens to them, I would regret it the rest of my life, if I live to be ninety. I’m tired of being treated like a China doll that might break. I been through enough these past few days to prove I’m strong and can put up with a lot.”
Zane heaved a sigh. Girls in his time were no different.
“And you forget one important thing,” she added. “I’m the only one who knows what these men look like.”
“Oh, that’s right. I didn’t think of that,” Zane said. “Okay, if you’re still bent on chasing them yourself, we’ll go with you.” He glanced at Jim who nodded his assent. “But we need food and water, and you need clothes. Jim and I have money so that’s no problem. Then the next thing is to figure out where they went or might go after they hole up for a bit.”
“Mars Tom say it only be a dozen miles or so downriver to where de Missouri River jine up wid dis river. Boun’ to be a village dere wid a lawman.”
“That’s right, Jim. We can row that distance pretty quick with the current in that nice yawl. We’ll leave at daylight. Should be there in less than two hours.” He pulled off his damp, itchy shirt and held it up to the heat of the flames. He’d risk the mosquitoes for a bit. He couldn’t sleep in wet clothes.
“I don’t want to sound like I’m ungrateful you rescued me,” Becky continued in a milder tone. “I surely do. But now it’s our turn to rescue them. The law needs me. I spent several days with those two no-accounts, and I could spot ’em a good distance off.”
“Then let’s try to sleep if we can and start fresh in the morning,” Zane said.
The fire was burning low and they had no more dry wood.
Jim went to the edge of the bar and dragged his canoe up close.
“It ain’t gonna rain no mo tonight,” Jim said, turning the canoe on its side. “Iffen ah puts dis canvas on de sand, Miss Becky kin sleep on it ’twixt de canoe and de fire and be mo comfortable.”
“Jim, you’re a real gentleman.”
“Zane kin sleep on de sand close by whilst I go bail out de yawl and sleep in dere wif de sail over me.”
“Good idea,” Zane agreed. “You still have your pistol. If a steamer comes along you can attract their attention with the standard distress signal—three shots.” He’d read somewhere this was like an SOS, but had no idea if it was true.
“Onliest things wrong wif dat notion,” Jim said, “is dat no steamboats be running at night in dis weather. And de powder’s done wet so ah can’t fire no shots.”
Jim pulled down the canvas shelter and spread it on the sand, dry side up. “Long as de frogs and de crickets be aclatterin’, we’s safe. If dey stops, some critter or man be sneakin’ roun’ close by.”
Zane didn’t know that. As he prepared to bed down, he wished he hadn’t learned it now because he’d be lying long awake, listening for the croaking and chirping to st
op.
Even more of a worry was a story his grandfather had told him about camping along the Tennessee shoreline of the Mississippi four summers ago. He’d heard a lot of squealing and grunting in the nearby brush during the night—unmistakable sounds of dangerous wild boars—animals with long tusks and armor-thick hides. His grandfather had lain awake all night with his hand on his revolver. But Zane doubted any razorbacks were on this island as early as 1849. Still . . .
CHAPTER 14
* * *
“I can’t handle both these boys by myself,” Chigger Smealey said, pausing to worry off a bite of tobacco. He offered the burley twist to the man sitting beside him, but Gus Weir shook his head. “We’ll have to stick together until we’re a long way off from here. Then we can split up and each go his own way.” Smealey worked the chew into one cheek.
Gus Weir frowned. “New Orleans is my home port. Once I’m set up there, I can dart out of the country, quick-like, until things cool off.”
The two men were sitting on the sun-warped front steps of a two-story frame house several miles west of Eagles Nest Island. The house, like the small barn behind it, was on its last legs, leaning precariously, roof partially caved in, glassless windows gaping like vacant eyes, all vestiges of paint long since blistered and pealed away, the boards weathered a dull gray.
Smealey glanced around at the house that had been their home for nearly a week. It wasn’t much, but he had to give Gus credit—it was a secure hideout, nearly surrounded as it was by a treacherous swamp. The area had apparently once been a nice small plantation. But over the years, the vagrant Mississippi, twisting and turning, flooding and receding, had eaten away the banks, formed oxbows, then cutoffs, and eventually the land had been inundated with floodwaters that never receded, creating swamps and backwaters, taking most of the arable land. Whoever had farmed this place years ago had abandoned it to the elements, and to its use by the current residents, Chigger, Gus, Tom, and Huck.
The two men sat on the steps in silence for several minutes.
