The rowboat had gone around in two tight, complete circles, but the occupants finally managed to get her under their control again.
“Tarry-hootin’ Yankee bastards!” Both men were now revealed as elderly, with identical white beards. “Sneaking up on a couple about their lawful fucking business and trying to run them down and fucking sink them.”
“Hey!” Krysty shouted. “Watch your language. There’s ladies on board here. And you would have run straight into us if we hadn’t warned you.”
Now that they’d turned their skiff around and had it gentled down, the two old-timers also calmed themselves. One of them wore a battered Stetson, and he raised it to Krysty.
“My ‘pologies, ma’am. My tongue sort of ran away with me. Guess we owe you thanks for saving us from getting plowed three fathoms deep.”
“Eel-bait is what me an’ Jericho would’ve been,” the other old man shouted.
“We seen the eels,” J.B. said as the two crafts came almost alongside each other. “Vicious little bastards. Figure that it would be triple-bad news if you went over the side with them anywhere around.”
“Many a good man been lost to them,” said the one called Jericho.
“You live nearby?” Ryan asked.
“Little ville off a side stream of the Tenner. Called Down the Line. Sixty-four Christian souls. My name’s Daniel, and this is my wife’s brother, Jericho. Hardly ever see anyone comin’ south on the water. Not out of the dark lands.”
The raft continued to drift with the current, the little boat keeping station with it.
Ryan didn’t feel like going into a lot of detail about who they were and where they’d come from. “Traders,” he said. “From up yonder.” He pointed vaguely past where Savannah had once stood, toward the north.
“Where ye headin’?” Daniel asked.
Ryan jerked his thumb in the opposite direction, still keeping a tight grip on his stick, balancing against the gentle pitching of the craft.
“Y’all visiting Shiloh battlefield?” Jericho asked. Their boat was drifting away from the raft as they worked at the oars to try to hold it on station.
“Thought we might. How far is it from here? Can’t be a great distance.”
The two oldsters cackled with laughter. “You northerners sure speak kind of strange. Can’t hardly understand it. Strangle the words in your throat.”
“How far?” Ryan repeated.
The two old men looked at each other, simultaneously putting their heads on one side, like a couple of world-weary crows on a fence watching an unwary frog. Ryan caught Krysty’s eye and grinned at her.
“Clumsy old raft like that should get you to the landing by Shiloh around dusk,” said Jericho.
“Want the tour of the battleground?” Daniel asked.
“Be interesting,” Ryan admitted. “You know someone does that down there?”
“My brother’s cousin’s your man,” Jericho said. “Name’s Judas Portillo.”
“Judas!” Doc exclaimed. “Does that mean we shall have to pay him thirty pieces of silver for his guiding? Or he might hang himself?”
The two old men looked at him with total bewilderment. “Why’d you do that?” Daniel asked. “Handful of jack or some chawin’ tobacco or a couple rounds of .38s’ll do him fine. Silver wouldn’t be no good, no how.”
“Let it pass, let it pass,” Doc said.
“We gotta go,” Jericho called. “Losing all the good ground we sorely won against the Tenner. Good luck to ye.”
“Judas Portillo? We’ll be sure to look out for him,” Ryan said.
“Tell him he owes me for a faucet in his shack,” Jericho said as he and his partner began to pull away together in fine style, propelling the little boat over the water, swiftly widening the gap between them and the raft.
Ryan waved to them, watching as they moved off, shrinking until they were only a tiny blur on the surface of the meandering Tennessee.
THERE WAS A SUDDEN FLURRY of light rain as the sun set on their starboard quarter.
J.B. stayed at the steering oar while the others crowded into the cramped little cabin.
“Won’t last,” Jak said, peering out of the rough-hewn window at the leaden sky. “Shower.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah, Ryan. Blue sky coming this way from south. Get here soon.”