his back. “He did, but he didn’t have to. Why else would two strangers come asking for Catfish John?”
Pearson scooted his chair so he could see the man better. “Well then? Now that our secret’s out, can you tell us where to find him?”
His unruly brows rose to peaks. “Mind you, catching up with Catfish John could be as hard as raising the
Mittie.”
Pearson shot him a slant-eyed challenge. “Try me. I’m fairly skilled at finding things.” Theo cleared his throat, and Pearson scowled. “Most things, that is.”
“Well, all right,” Mr. Robb said, settling his back against the slats of his chair. “He lives on an island out on the lake—no one knows exactly where. He only comes to shore to sell fish and store up supplies. You could wait around one of the landings until he comes off the lake with a stringer of catfish. Otherwise, the chance of running across him is slim.”
“I’ll take that chance,” Pearson said.
Mr. Robb shook his head. “You’re on a fool’s quest, you know, one even John can’t help you with. Many a man has scoured the Caddo looking for that ship, men who’ve lived their lives working the steamboats. They know the routes, some even lived on the lake, but none of them has ever found her. What makes you think you can?”
“To be honest, sir”—Pearson winked—”I’m more determined.”
Mr. Robb blinked, his jaw going slack. Sudden laughter bubbled up his throat, first as a wheezing sound then tumbling from his mouth in belly-shaking glee.
Theo joined in, draping one arm around his shoulders and patting him.
Except for the hint of a smile, one he quickly bit back, Pearson fought to stay sober lest the old man doubt his sincerity.
When Mr. Robb finally caught his breath, he clutched his knees with both hands and swiveled toward Pearson. “Son, you’ve given me the best laugh I’ve had all year. For that, and because I admire your gumption, I’m going to tell you what you want to know. You take the Port Caddo road, the Old Stagecoach Road they call it, heading east out of town. It’s a good long ride. Go to old Port Caddo or the old Uncertain Landing and talk to some of the dockhands who used to work with the steamboats, loading and unloading goods. Those that are left are commercial fishermen now, guides and so forth.”
He paused. “Who knows … you might find a leftover Caddo Indian still lurking in the woods. Then you’d have a bona fide tracker.” He snorted. “You’ll need one to find that ol’
Mittie.”
Theo’s big eyes held a question. “Did you say you were uncertain about which landing? Because if you don’t know, how can we hope to find it?”
Mr. Robb’s shoulders shook again. “No, son. Uncertain is the name. The old steamboat captains had the dickens of a time mooring their vessels there, so it became known as Uncertain Landing.” Beaming, he tilted his head. “Come to think on it, it’s right comical that you two are headed out there seeking an uncertain treasure on the wreckage of a ship whose location is the most uncertain part of all.”
Standing, the old man stretched then scratched his midsection. “If I can help you boys with anything else you’re uncertain about, come out to the house and see me.” The twinkle had returned to his eyes. “It’s not too late to change your minds, you know. My offer to pick cotton still holds.”
Smiling despite himself, Pearson stood and offered his hand. “I’m pleased you find our plight so entertaining, Mr. Robb. I’ve enjoyed meeting you, sir, and thank you for the information. I guess we’ll pass on your generous offer, though.”
“Suit yourself, young fella. You all be careful, you hear?” With a jaunty salute, Mr. Robb shuffled away, still chuckling as he turned the corner.
EIGHT
B reakfast passed in an uncomfortable blur. Every word Miss Whitfield said, every topic broached, held the erroneous assumption that Addie would stay. Her own mother behaved the same
Pearson scooted his chair so he could see the man better. “Well then? Now that our secret’s out, can you tell us where to find him?”
His unruly brows rose to peaks. “Mind you, catching up with Catfish John could be as hard as raising the
Mittie.”
Pearson shot him a slant-eyed challenge. “Try me. I’m fairly skilled at finding things.” Theo cleared his throat, and Pearson scowled. “Most things, that is.”
“Well, all right,” Mr. Robb said, settling his back against the slats of his chair. “He lives on an island out on the lake—no one knows exactly where. He only comes to shore to sell fish and store up supplies. You could wait around one of the landings until he comes off the lake with a stringer of catfish. Otherwise, the chance of running across him is slim.”
“I’ll take that chance,” Pearson said.
Mr. Robb shook his head. “You’re on a fool’s quest, you know, one even John can’t help you with. Many a man has scoured the Caddo looking for that ship, men who’ve lived their lives working the steamboats. They know the routes, some even lived on the lake, but none of them has ever found her. What makes you think you can?”
“To be honest, sir”—Pearson winked—”I’m more determined.”
Mr. Robb blinked, his jaw going slack. Sudden laughter bubbled up his throat, first as a wheezing sound then tumbling from his mouth in belly-shaking glee.
Theo joined in, draping one arm around his shoulders and patting him.
Except for the hint of a smile, one he quickly bit back, Pearson fought to stay sober lest the old man doubt his sincerity.
When Mr. Robb finally caught his breath, he clutched his knees with both hands and swiveled toward Pearson. “Son, you’ve given me the best laugh I’ve had all year. For that, and because I admire your gumption, I’m going to tell you what you want to know. You take the Port Caddo road, the Old Stagecoach Road they call it, heading east out of town. It’s a good long ride. Go to old Port Caddo or the old Uncertain Landing and talk to some of the dockhands who used to work with the steamboats, loading and unloading goods. Those that are left are commercial fishermen now, guides and so forth.”
He paused. “Who knows … you might find a leftover Caddo Indian still lurking in the woods. Then you’d have a bona fide tracker.” He snorted. “You’ll need one to find that ol’
Mittie.”
Theo’s big eyes held a question. “Did you say you were uncertain about which landing? Because if you don’t know, how can we hope to find it?”
Mr. Robb’s shoulders shook again. “No, son. Uncertain is the name. The old steamboat captains had the dickens of a time mooring their vessels there, so it became known as Uncertain Landing.” Beaming, he tilted his head. “Come to think on it, it’s right comical that you two are headed out there seeking an uncertain treasure on the wreckage of a ship whose location is the most uncertain part of all.”
Standing, the old man stretched then scratched his midsection. “If I can help you boys with anything else you’re uncertain about, come out to the house and see me.” The twinkle had returned to his eyes. “It’s not too late to change your minds, you know. My offer to pick cotton still holds.”
Smiling despite himself, Pearson stood and offered his hand. “I’m pleased you find our plight so entertaining, Mr. Robb. I’ve enjoyed meeting you, sir, and thank you for the information. I guess we’ll pass on your generous offer, though.”
“Suit yourself, young fella. You all be careful, you hear?” With a jaunty salute, Mr. Robb shuffled away, still chuckling as he turned the corner.
EIGHT
B reakfast passed in an uncomfortable blur. Every word Miss Whitfield said, every topic broached, held the erroneous assumption that Addie would stay. Her own mother behaved the same
Similar Books
