CHAPTER XXXII THE LAST OF THE BASIN

Skippy was so frightened that he did nothing for a moment but sit and stare. Then suddenly he realized the terrible thing before his eyes, and he pulled the boat up alongside of the barge, trembling from head to foot.

The dog leaped out of his arms the moment he got on deck and refused to run with him to the shanty. But Skippy had neither the time nor the nerves to think of anything but the battered Beasell in the boat floating beside the barge.

He flung open the door of the shanty and rushed to Tully’s bunk. The big fellow jumped up startled, and sat motionless while Skippy whispered of his discovery.

“Won’t it go bad for everybody here?” he asked with agonized suspense. “Won’t it, Big Joe?”
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“Sure ’twill be just too bad, so ’twill,” Tully said getting up and dressing. “Somewan did it what’s gone cuckoo for thinkin’ they’ll be turned out o’ their home tomorrow night. And crazy like, they beat up that Beasell thinkin’ they’d be gettin’ even with Marty Skinner—see? Sure I know me Brown’s Basin, kid.”

Skippy shivered with the horror of it. If Brown’s Basin was like that, he wouldn’t be sorry to leave it after all. Neither could he love people who used such ghastly means for their revenge against Skinner. He wanted to get away from it then, that minute.

“We gotta tell the police, Big Joe, huh?” he murmured.

Big Joe nodded as if he were dazed.

“Us river people ain’t goin’ to have no peace whilst Skinner’s alive, kid!” he said in hard, even tones. “Whoever slugged that Beasell guy—well, me, I’d be goin’ for Skinner, so I would. So he’s goin’ to take the Minnie M. Baxter from ye, is he? Well, we’ll be seein’ about that.”

“Forget me for now, Big Joe. What worries me is, what’re we gonna do with Beasell? Maybe he’s dead.”

“Now ye be goin’ down and stay till I come, kid,” said the big fellow, drawing on his shoes.
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Skippy started for the kicker. He went forward but that was as far as he got for he became suddenly aware of a low, ominous rumbling noise that seemed to come from shore and run through the barge colony. Before he had a chance to determine what it was he felt himself lifted off his feet bodily and like a feather he was thrown into the muddy waters of the Basin.

There was a terrific detonation throughout Brown’s Basin as Skippy came to the surface. Fire leaped from one barge to the other in the twinkling of an eye and the screams of men, women and children filled the turbid air.

Smoke poured skyward in great columns and in the light of the moon, Skippy saw the ponderous form of Big Joe Tully standing on the deck of the Minnie M. Baxter shouting and waving his hands. Suddenly he leaped into the kicker and the boy called out but he seemed not to hear in the din about them.

At that moment, the Minnie M. Baxter burst into flames. Big Joe Tully shouted deafeningly and Skippy, swimming hard to reach him, saw a strange, almost maniacal expression on his large face.

“’Tis Marty Skinner what’s done this!” he was shouting to no one in particular. “’Tis him what’s blowed this place up and took the kid away from me. ’Tis him! Skippy’s dead—I’m sure he’s dead! I can’t find him!” he was almost whimpering.
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“I’m here!” Skippy called frantically. “Big Joe....”

But Tully was even then steering the kicker out of the inlet. He had the throttle wide open and Skippy had no more than a glimpse of the racing craft before she slipped beyond his sight.

Logs, huge chunks of driftwood and every known article of household furniture, both broken and whole, floated in Skippy’s path, blocking his progress. Suddenly he saw a little boat bearing down upon him, floating through the inlet unoccupied.

He reached out, grabbed the bow and climbed in, breathless and exhausted. Other kickers were shoving off filled with crying women and shouting men. Skippy looked about over the water, but saw nothing but a procession of slowly moving debris.

He turned over the motor and she responded with a fearful jerk. He was moving, in any event, moving away from the fearful heat that the burning barges threw out over the water. The moon’s shimmering light now looked sickly and pale in contrast to the fearful red glare that spread over the entire sky.
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The screaming sirens of motor boats soon became part of the pandemonium and Skippy heard commanding shouts for the boats to clear out of the inlet immediately. In the wake of this he heard a heart-rending shriek from the midst of the barge inferno which made him feel sick and weak.

“Mrs. Duffy an’ her two kids ain’t nowheres,” a man’s voice shouted above the roar. “I’ll bet Skinner had that dynamite planted.” And as Skippy attempted to turn the kicker about he was peremptorily ordered from the approaching police launch to keep on his way out to the river.

He didn’t look back again. The Minnie M. Baxter was a seething mass behind him—there was nothing left. Big Joe was nowhere about—Skippy suddenly remembered the big fellow’s shouts about Skinner. It gave him an idea and he nosed the boat down the river.

Out of this confusion of mind, he thought of the dog. He remembered then that he hadn’t seen the puppy since he had let him down on the deck after seeing the battered Beasell.
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And what had become of him? Was he dead or alive? Skippy wiped a grimy hand across his forehead. He was utterly weary and exhausted by the ordeal. He could not think of an answer to anything. His world had toppled over since the discovery of Beasell and the explosion. And now Mugs was gone too—his skipping, faithful-eyed pal! Was there nothing left for him at all?

He put his hands over the wheel and gripped it bitterly, but soon he relaxed and with a soft sob he covered his face. And nobody knew but the river.