McCurdy studied the sopping preacher for a moment and then eased back as he settled into the boat.  He stuffed his Colt .45 back into his leather shoulder-holster under the coat of his plain, dark blue suit and there it lingered for a moment.  He kept studying the preacher, his grey eyes sizing the man, estimating his girth as if about to enter the ring with him.  His jaw was hard, clenching as he studied, his features lean, his close-cropped hair - now more grey than brown - was covered by a Fedora hat that shielded his eyes from the sun so he could see the wet bible-thumper best.

It wasn’t obvious what was going through his head as he looked the man over, along with his aquatic partner, but it was apparent that he was a man that studied everyone and everything whenever he got the chance.  The shamus seemed to come to a decision and pulled his hand out from beneath his coat, his pack of Camels in a grip.  He slipped one between his teeth, offering one to the two newcomers without a word, and then fished out a pack of matches.  He looked at the preacher over the match he struck to life and said just before lighting, “Yur from Texas.  I’d recognize that accent anywhere.”

Being from Arkansas, it was easy to tell a Texan... they always drew out everything they said to make themselves sound important, as if they had a bushel of knowledge and grit more than anyone else.  The Alamo spoiled them rotten.

"Take 'ee the word of a scoundrel and scalawag for what it be, Milady," Hornsby said to Marianne, while winking at Liza, whose smile showed absolute delight at such a character presenting himself. "The mapmaker, he's about a handspan less my height, plump, and nigh bald, m'dear.  Carries a watch with him, a gold one."  Hornsby obviously meant a pocket-watch.  "And he knows the quick way to the fountain, wrote me up a map oncet; but I lost it.  I only know the long way...and time's awastin', lad !"  the last was directed at Sebastian Hawksmoore, who obediently leapt into action and started up the motor again.

Neither of the two strange men bothered with McCurdy, or Brother Clary.

Marianne's heart sank at Hornsby's words. The Captain's description sounded remarkably like Basil... and there were some illusions she preferred to cling to, especially if they were her only hope of getting to the bottom of this mystery and getting back out alive and in one piece.

"I see... well... He doesn't sound very... dangerous... wouldn't you agree?" she said brightly with an attempt at a smile, pacing up and down again. "After all, he knew he couldn't hurt you... I'm sure he didn't intend for anyone to die..." she argued. But the image of that poor native, as frail and mortal as she, stuck with her.

Glancing back over at the feller in the fedora, Brother Clary yanked himself back from his reverie.  Drawing himself up to his full six-foot lanky height, he returned the stare.  "Glad to see you put away the shootin'-iron.  I'd hate to see you meet your Maker knowin' you gunned down a man o' the cloth jest after you pulled 'em outta the drink."

"Seems you have me at a disadvantage, brother.  You knew who I was, but I'm still not sure who you are, nor how you know me."

Hearing the distress in the attractive redhead's voice, he turned next to her, removing his water-logged hat.

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but wouldn't be the first time anyone's been fooled by a smooth talker.  I suspect won't be the last, either.  As for poor Billie down there," he took his hat and held it over his heart as a sign of respect, "May the Lord have mercy on whoever bushwacked us like that, because I plan on havin' my say."

McCurdy chuckled at the preacher and said, “Name’s McCurdy, Jack McCurdy.  I’m a private detective.  I was hired to find you.”  He lounged back on the bow as if he was having a good day and it was time to relax.

Now it was the preacher's turn to grin.  "A Private Eye, eh? What fer?  I ain't never been married, so it can't be a jealous wife."

At Brother Clary's words, Marianne's expression grew more troubled. She looked as if she was about to say something, and then changed her mind, continuing to pace up and down.

“It’s a lost and found case, actually,” McCurdy said, drawing on his cigarette.  “I’m supposed to find a missing cross.”  He pointed at Brother Clary.  “You have it.”

He smiled.  “I hope I have the right Brother Clary...”

  Brother Clary's eyes cut back down the river toward where the "Mapmaker's" boat had gone.    The Texas preacher's feet shifted uncomfortably.



"Y'did, up until about fifteen minutes ago."  He turned his face full on down the river, following his eyes.  "It was in my pack, which is now making its way down river...."

Hornsby offered up a sly smile to Marianne. "A parlous man, Milady, with a plan of his own.  He and I were as brothers, time ago; and now, enemies most bitter.  See ye the shell of poor Billie ?  Twas a good man, who did not deserve a death."

The other two, Hornsby and Hawksmoore, were ignoring the other exchange by and large and having one of their own.  Hornsby was bossing Hawksmoore around in jovial manner, and oddly enough, the surly youth was accepting this as perfectly all right, and actually joking back.  "Yarely, Master Hawksmoore, and what make ye for our time, wi' that poxy pig's brake-fast ahead, d'ye reckon ?"
"Look'ee, twas not I lost the map, Captain !" But Hawksmoore gave the engine more fuel, sending the boat along faster.
"A handsome slog twill be, wi'lasses in tow, Hell's bells and Hailstones !"
"Tis not with them I shalt go !"  Hawksmoore insisted.
"Rot 'ee for a harsh heart, Bastian, wilt never give over thy gall ?  Twas years ago !  You shall stride over the man's grave a dozen times !"
"Bedamned to him, and you, for ever saying aught !"  snapped Sebastian Hawksmoore. "Bloody Hook !  Bloody childer !  Bloody Pan !"
Hornsby rolled his eye and sighed, then directed his attention - with a rakehelly grin - to Marianne and Liza.  "Ladies, m'dears, and gentlemen," he said. "Dost wish a story ?"
"Hist !"  growled Sebastian Hawksmoore, again in an ill temper, but Hornsby held up a hand and the youth subsided.
"Tis a good story, though the end is not known.  It has been told oncet upon a doublet-score years."
"Captain, say't not; then we shall never be shut of the pestiferous hens !"  Hawksmoore snapped, with a wave at Marianne and Liza.
"Stay thy bile, boy !"  Hornsby raised his voice, and Hawksmoore backed down immediately. The ring of authority in Hornsby's tone was notable; this man had been in command. "We've our demon-hunter in yon Preacher; the Way can be made.  Tis time they knew what waits."

McCurdy cut his eyes at Eyepatch then back at the preacher.  He had no reason to doubt a man of God would lead him astray, but recent events and his own confidence in men made him look back at the man with the eye patch.

“That true?” he said to Hawksmoore’s friend.

"Twas in thy pack !  BOLLOCKS !"  yelped Hornsby, aghast at the news from Brother Clary. "Tis no matter for japes ! Truly ?  Damme for a lubber !"

McCurdy had to laugh.  He barely understood a word Eyepatch said, but he got the gist of it.  The gumshoe rose to his feet in the bow and looked out over the flow of the river.  He was still chuckling.

“Guess I’m no longer looking for you, Brother Clary...”  He turned and looked at Eyepatch and Hawksmoore.  “What did you call him... the Mapmaker?  Is he the same as this Basil Ringrose?”

Marianne's eyes widened as she tried to follow Hawksmoore and Hornsby's rapid exchange. Hook? Pan? Hawksmoore had mentioned that his story had ended up as a children's fairy tale, but she hadn't imagined...

"Peter Pan?! Really?" she marveled.

But her smile faded at the Captain's reaction. If it was Basil... and he had grabbed the cross... it wasn't really possible that he had intended to hurt them... was it?

She sighed at McCurdy's question.

"I'd rather you didn't answer that question, Mr. Hornsby," she said with a glare at the private eye.

"But perhaps you can answer this... This cross... was it important?" she asked, looking at the Captain with a rather troubled expression.

Murder and thievery... What other crimes might be laid at Basil's door?

McCurdy looked at the redhead.  “And I would rather he would.  Not everything is about you.  This ain’t your personal adventure into Neverland.  If you don’t want to hear the answer plug your ears.”

The humor in the Arkie's laugh relaxed the preacher a bit.  The accusatory tone from the odd youngster didn't help, though.

"Looks like you'n me are gonna to do a little huntin'. " He hefted his shotgun up onto his shoulder.  "Billy Chang told me that the cross comes to them it chooses, and I says it chose me first, so I got it in my mind to get it back.  I'd appreciate a little help, but I'm a-gittin it with or without."

"Oh, I will, Mr. McCurdy..." Marianne glared. "And I'll just sit here and watch you head off with no clue where he might be.

What are you going to do if you find him, Mr. McCurdy? Put a bullet in him?" She snorted.

McCurdy smirked at the Redhead.  “I’ll let him do that,” he said, canting his head at the preacher, acknowledging his desire to continue his quest.  “I’m not being paid to shoot anyone.  Not this time.”  He sat back down and eased another cigarette out.  He looked in the pack to see how many were left and then checked his pockets... only two packs left.

He lit one up anyway.  “I suppose now yur going to tell me now that you are the only one that knows where this bald Basil bloke is going, eh...”  He smiled at her like a cat.  He was enjoying the banter way too much.

Marianne's eyes narrowed. "Now, why would I say something like that, Mr. McCurdy, when I could have the pleasure of watching you make a fool of yourself instead?" she asked sweetly.

McCurdy chuckled at her.  “True to form,” he said, “true to form.”  He looked out over the river again, listening for the boat motor; any boat motor.

Marianne huffed and turned back to the Captain and the Preacher. "As I was saying... About this cross... what would happen if this mapmaker, whatever his name is, had it?" She punctuated her words with a glare at McCurdy.

McCurdy couldn’t help but wink at her and smirk.

He had wondered why she just couldn’t bear to hear the man’s name, but let it go after a moment.  She wasn’t part of his case, so it didn’t really matter.  Probably some relative anyway... Or someone she had offered her... skills to.

He chuckled at that thought.

At the mention of Peter Pan, Hawksmoore's face darkened, the grey eyes spitting fire, but he said nothing.  Hornsby meanwhile watched the two debate points, a stricken look upon his face. "E's got the cross," he said, at last, to Hawksmoore.

The Boy who would never Grow Up then shrugged.  "Then we get it back," he said. "Though we only know the slow passage, we must go hastily."
"Happen I should rue the day I ere fought with Basil Ringrose," Hornsby said, with true woe, "Else I shant have lost the map.  Lay on, lad, this race we must not lose !"

"'Vengenace is mine,' says the Lord.  Until I cool off a mite, I'm prayin' that I might be the instrument of that vengeance..."

The preacher was angry, and justifiably so.  But he wasn't sure he felt right about the whole thing.  He definitely wanted to meet again with the bushwackers, and recover the cross.  He might even be enticed with the possibility of exacting a measure of justice for the gentle native guide who was unsuspectingly sent into the arms of God's holy angels.

He then looked around at the motely group of accidental companions.  'What hath God wrought?' He thought to himself.

Marianne's expression darkened at Brother Clary's words. Her arms were crossed and her lips tightened. There was no mistaking the decidedly angry look in her eyes. She seemed to pay no attention to the Captain and Hawksmoore's exchange.