died miles to go from Mendova—lots of time before mid-January. He would dream down those great curves shown by the map. He would recover his poise, and he would by that time be an old river man, careless and free in that vast plenty of atmosphere which was the charm and the life of the huge torrent.
Murdong purchased a carbine rifle and four hundred 30-30 calibre cartridges, hard and soft nose both. He bought another automatic pistol and picked up two sheets of boiler iron, half rounded. His idea was that in case of an attack anywhere down the river he could stand one of these sheets in front of him and use it as a breastwork. He had never heard of shantyboaters who line their cabin along their bunk with boiler metal to protect them against being shot up at a landing. Thus was the instinct of self-preservation vindicated. Murdong knew what to do.
He floated out of the Mendova landing and down the river. Something of the sweetness seemed to have vanished from the atmosphere of the Mississippi, but it had gained in romantic interest.
"Where else in the world would a man find five hundred diamonds in a shantyboat?" Murdong asked himself.
From now on, like a diamond salesman, he lurked along, keeping at a distance from other shantyboaters, and having nothing to do with other river people.
