Time had been when he was quite a smart kind of a fellow, with as slick clothes as the next man's, when he lived in a big cabin-boat and kept a hired man to cook, tend bar, and other things, for his trade was selling whisky from Evansville to below Red River. He had been slick at that business, too, and none knew the safe landings and the dangerous landings any better than he.
Never had a planter's party shot him up, because he knew enough to run in, make his sales, and slip on down the river before the field hands could attract the attention of the Overseer or, worse yet, the Planter.
There remained fixed in Storit's mind a picture of the ease and glory of his condition. He remembered vividly a thousand incidents which showed him how important he had been in those old days. Among the other things were his diamonds. He had worn three rings on one hand and two on the other hand, all diamond rings, and the cheapest one worth four hundred dollars. He had had a diamond stud in his shirt bosom which was his glory, for it represented the savings of a whole year of profitable whisky business.
A sting in the memories of those days were the warnings which he had received from men and women to the effect that he ought to look out, or those diamonds would surely draw trouble down some dark and lonesome bend, or at some black landing.
