“None o’ your business. Go back to your bedroll.”
Barr ran a hand over his jaw and squinted at them. “Does Dag know you two are out here?” The absent look of a groundsense consulted slipped over his face. “No, he’s asleep.”
“Good. Don’t you dare wake him up. He needs his sleep.” Fawn stuck one already-wet shoe into the mud and gave them a hard shove off. The skiff slid away from shore.
“If you don’t want Dag to know what you’re up to, then I’m definitely curious,” said Barr stubbornly, beginning to follow them up the bank.
“We’re un-stealing sheep,” said Whit. “Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my idea.”
“Won’t Boss Wain be mad?”
“No,” said Fawn. “He’ll think they chewed through their ropes and ran off. I made sure to leave the ends ragged and all over sheep spit.” She rubbed her hands on her skirts and took up her oar. Unfortunately, Whit’s pull, once they got coordinated, was about twice as strong as hers, which resulted in the skiff turning toward shore unless he waited for her to stroke again. And in the pause the down-bound current pushed them back. Barr was having no trouble keeping up, even with the need to pick his way across the rocks and fallen logs.
“You two are never going to make it upstream against this current,” he observed.
“Well, we’re gonna try, so get out of our way.” Not that Barr was actually in the way, but he was being very annoying off to the side.
Barr continued walking up the bank. Very slowly. A passenger said M-a-a-a.
“You’re not making much progress,” he said again.
“Let’s try farther out in the channel, Whit,” suggested Fawn.
“That makes no sense,” said Whit. “Current’s stronger out there.”
“Yes, but it’ll be more private.”
M-a-a-a. M-a-a-a.
“Dag’d flay me if I let you two babies go drown yourselves in the Grace,” Barr complained.
“So don’t tell him,” said Fawn through her teeth. Her hands were beginning to ache.
After a few more minutes, Barr said, “I can’t stand this. Give over. Come inshore and I’ll take Fawn’s oar.”
“We don’t need your help,” said Fawn.
“Yes, we do,” said Whit, and rowed harder. Fawn splashed madly, but was unable to keep the skiff from turning in.
“No, the stupid sheep’ll try and jump out!”
“Well, go nab ’em. You herd sheep, Barr and I will row.”
Fawn gave up. Barr edged past, and he and Whit pushed the boat out into the river once more. Fawn settled irately on the next seat and shoved a sheep face out of her lap. But she slowly grew consoled as their upriver progress became more visible. Whit’s muscles were on the whippy side, but a farmer son’s life had left them harder than they looked, and he kept up with Barr’s broader shoulders well enough.
The sheep dropped dung, trampled it around the bottom of the boat, and bleated. One attempted suicide by leaping into the river, but Fawn lunged and pulled it back with her hands dug into its greasy fleece. Another tried to follow the first’s example.
“Can’t you settle these sheep down with your groundsense?” Fawn asked Barr. “I bet Dag could.”
“I don’t do sheep,” said Barr distantly.
“No, only boat bosses,” said Whit, which resulted in a chilly silence for a time. The moonlit woods slid slowly past, silvered and remarkably featureless.
“I’m getting blisters,” Whit complained. “How much farther?”
“Well, we’re looking for a sheep pasture that comes right down to the water,” said Fawn.
“What if the sheep are in the fold for the night?” said Whit. “There are lots of pastures that come down to the water. We’ve been passing ’em for days.”
Fawn was quiet.
“Do you even know which one we’re looking for?” asked Barr.
“Er…well…not really.”
“Fawn!” protested Whit. “It could have been any farm for the last twenty miles—or more! Likely more—stands to reason Wain wouldn’t stop too close, in case that farmer figured out he’d been diddled and came after ’em.”
“I’m not rowing any twenty miles!” said Barr.
The mutiny was unanimous. The skiff put in at the first likely-looking pasture it came to, and Barr and Whit united to heave the bleating cargo overboard. The sheep cantered off a few paces and clustered to glower ungratefully back at their rescuers. Whit yanked Fawn back into the boat and turned it downstream.
“I sure hope they find a smarter owner,” she muttered.
“Yeah, sheep, don’t bother thanking us for saving your lives or anything,” Whit called sarcastically, turning and waving.
“Whit, they’re sheep,” said Fawn. “You can’t expect gratitude. You just…know you did the right thing, is all.”
“Just like f—” Barr began, and abruptly shut up. Fawn shot him a suspicious look. After a moment, he said instead, “They sure did stink. Who’s cleaning up this boat?”
“Not me,” said Whit.
“Somebody’ll have to,” said Barr. “I mean…evidence.”
“I will take care of it,” said Fawn through her teeth.
Lovely moonlight and less lovely silence fell. They came in sight of the Fetch in about a third of the time it had taken them to labor upstream.
“Thank you both,” said Fawn gruffly. “Even if I couldn’t make it right, it seems less wrong now. I couldn’t have done it without your help.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Whit.
“Don’t you two un-sheep-stealers go congratulating each other too soon,” said Barr, with a nod toward the Fetch. Fawn followed his glance and went still to see Dag sitting cross-legged on the roof in the moonlight, gazing upstream.
“Crap,” said Whit.
“Though I’m suddenly glad you’re here, Whit,” muttered Barr. “To prevent misunderstandings and all.” He glanced circumspectly at Fawn.
Fawn thought the greater fear might be perfectly correct understandings, actually. As the skiff eased alongside the flatboat, Dag dropped down to the back deck to catch the painter-rope Fawn tossed up to him.
He sniffed, and inquired dryly, “Nice boat ride?”
“Uh-huh,” said Fawn, staring up in defiance.
“Whit, Barr…you look a mite sheepish, one could say.”
“No, we only smell it,” muttered Whit.
“It wasn’t my doing!” Barr blurted.
Dag’s lips twisted up. “This time, Barr, I believe you.”
He leaned down to give them each a hand up in turn, and oversee the skiff properly tied.
Whit said uneasily, “Are you going to turn us in?”
“Who to? They weren’t my sheep.” He added after a moment, “Or yours.”
Barr breathed stealthy relief, and Dag shepherded Fawn firmly to bed.
He actually kept his face straight until he had a pillow stuffed over it. The chortles that then leaked through had Fawn poking him. “Stop that!”
It took a while till he quieted down.
The Fetch left its mooring soon after dawn, when the Snapping Turtle’s bleary crew were just beginning to search the nearby woods for their escaped mutton. The sweep-men draped on their oars maintained just enough motion to give steering way to the rudder, and sometimes not even that. Even Berry seemed content to drift at the river’s pace. Despite being as cotton-headed from lack of sleep as everyone else was from other excesses, Fawn kept strong tea coming, and as the morning wore on folks slowly recovered.
The river’s pace picked up abruptly around noon, when a great brown flood swept in from the right, and the current grew rolling.
“That’s not the Gray already, is it?” Fawn asked Berry, startled, when she looked out her moving kitchen window to find the shore grown alarmingly distant.
“Nope,” said Berry, in a tone of satisfaction, and took another swig of tea. “That’s the Beargrass River. It swings up through Raintree to Farmer’s Flats. We’re three-fourths of the way from Tripoint to the Confluence now! They must have had heavy storms in Raintree this past week—I haven’t often seen the Beargrass this high.”
“Do boats go on it?” Fawn peered some more.
“Sure. All the way to Farmer’s Flats, which is the head of navigation, pretty much. Which is why the town is where it is, I ’spect. The Beargrass is almost as busy as the Grace.”