The old man puffed in silence for a moment. “Reckon the worst I ever see with my personal eyes was ol’ Jericho Wilson o’ the Cave Gang,” he replied at length. “Him an’ Black Carnahan an’ Earless Jake Rogers was a bad bunch. They had more’n a hundred men to back ’em up, an’ kep’ the whole Ohio Valley scairt fer a while. When that posse of up-river hunters wiped ’em out, I know mighty well we all breathed easier. “But listen to me, boy. Fer real cold-blooded, cutthroat deviltry, nobody on any o’ the rivers kin touch this man John Murrell. He an’ his gang hang out on an island somewhere down beyond Natchez. He started as a gambler, hoss-thief, an’ murderer, but his main trade nowadays is stealin’ niggers. They say he’s killed twenty-eight men himself, an’ gosh knows how many the rest o’ the gang have put away. Mostly he works along the lower river, but once in a while, when things git too hot around the plantations, he stays out o’ sight fer a while, mebbe up the Ohio, or over in Alabama.” “Did you ever see him?” asked Tad. “Not me, an’ I hope the day don’t soon come!” said Magoon, fervently. “They tell me he’s a tall, pale-faced sort o’ feller, with dead black hair like a Frenchman. But the chances are you’ll never run afoul of him. He don’t bother with flatboats much. He’s out for bigger game.” He got up from his box and looked over at the eastern shore, shading his eyes with his hand. Some one on the bank was waving a white cloth to and fro. “That’s a signal fer me to land,” he said. “The folks along the river know a tradin’-scow by the calico flag, an’ wave to us when they want us.” Tad got back aboard the _Katy Roby_, and they cast off the tie-rope. “Wal, so long, Hoosiers,” said Magoon. “Reckon I won’t see ye again, less’n I ketch ye in New Orleans. Take keer o’ yerselves. Ho, ho! Fishin’ worms an’ suckin’ doves! Heh, heh!” And he was still chuckling over Abe’s words and repeating them to Fanny, the setter, as the two boats drifted apart. Tad watched the odd little craft until its owner was no longer visible in the distance. Then he looked down at the coarse, homely pantaloons that covered his legs. In spite of himself he could not help a little smile as he thought of the spectacle he would present to one of his carefully attired schoolmates. Abe saw the smile, and his face lit with pleasure. “Like ’em, Tad?” he asked. “You bet,” said Tad stoutly. “But listen, Abe, you oughtn’t to do this for me. How much does Mr. Gentry pay you, anyway?” “That’s all right,” replied the big backwoodsman, grinning proudly. “I git eight dollars a month an’ my steamboat passage home.” And with that he vaulted to the fore deck and picked up the oars. CHAPTER VII