THE MOON CAME back, starting a new month, and life on the drive returned to normal as the herd approached the White Rock River, the first major river crossing on the trail, and the town of Forn’s Crossing. After conducting himself so well during the stampede and subsequent roundup, Silas was advanced to taking turns riding alongside the herd farther up instead of always being at the rear. As well, at the insistence of Endis and Landstrom, Lainie was allowed to do even more of the cooking. The hard-working hands had done themselves proud, not losing a single head of cattle in the stampede, and if they wanted Lainie’s spicier dishes and lighter biscuits, then that was what they would get. With all due respect to Mrs. Bington and her own excellent cooking, of course.
In spite of the bosses’ diplomacy, Mrs. Bington was not happy about the decree. Besides turning over more of the cooking to Lainie, she also left Lainie to do most of the serving and the bulk of the cleanup while she occupied herself with “reorganizing” the supplies in the wagons and other such busywork. Every night, Silas offered to help, but Lainie always shooed him away to get his few hours’ rest before his turn on watch. When Mr. Bington offered to dry some of the dishes one evening, Mrs. Bington smacked him on the shoulder and said, “Haven’t you finished counting those bags of beans yet? We’ll be at Forn’s Crossing before you know it.”
Meekly, Bington went back to helping Mrs. Bington take inventory of the supply wagons, leaving Lainie to finish up the dishes on her own as Silas headed out for the night watch.
Lainie dealt with it all with a steadfast cheer and politeness, even when she looked so tired that Silas didn’t see how she could still be on her feet. She deferred to Mrs. Bington’s whims, and gave the older woman credit for the food whenever she could. When Mrs. Bington got frustrated trying to remember her name, Lainie even told her to just call her by her given name, a familiarity usually reserved for close friends and family members.
One day, about fed up with Mrs. Bington’s treatment of Lainie, Silas cornered Lainie alone. “How’re you holding up, darlin’? Want me to have a word with Endis for you?”
She smiled. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. It’s a lot of work, but I’m used to it. I’d rather be busy than bored. And anyhow, with Mrs. Bington out from under foot, I can do things my own way.”
Indeed, Lainie had quickly trained the hands to bring their own dishes to the washing table instead of leaving them scattered all over the camp. And though all the hands, ages fifteen to fifty, married men and bachelors alike, still flirted with her, the threat of not getting fed had moderated the flirting to levels that Silas considered much more acceptable. Instead of being managed by Mrs. Bington, Silas realized proudly, Lainie was the one doing the managing, and doing very well.
Several days out from the White Rock River, heavy clouds moved in over the hills to the north. Endis, Landstrom, and the more experienced hands eyed the storm-shrouded hills with concern; storms this time of year were more likely to bring rain than snow, which would flood the rivers and creeks with runoff from the hills. Slowly, over the next few days, the storm spread from the hills down into the lowlands, bringing high winds and cold, drenching rains. A day away from the White Rock, the outriders who had been sent to scout out the river crossing returned to report that it was impassable.
The cattle were unhappy in the wet, cold weather and refused to bed down that night, which meant that all the hands had to pull double shifts on night watch. The weather had the crew feeling almost as morose and unsettled as the cattle. No one sang; only the pounding of rain and rushing of the wind filled the night.
In the dark and the rain, Silas sat in the saddle, shivering, his hat and rain cape dripping. As much out of boredom and misery as because he thought he would find something, he reached out with his mage senses to see if the storm might be driven by magic. Holding up the herd at a flooded river crossing would provide another good opportunity for a couple of rogue mages to make mischief.
He didn’t sense the aura of power that would accompany a storm generated or enhanced with magic; as well, manipulating a storm this size would require half a dozen or more mages working together, and he didn’t sense any mages in the area. Neither could he imagine that many rogue mages joining forces. Still, there could be Wildings-born mages around, suppressing their power and waiting for a chance to take advantage of the storm.
The next day, as the rain continued to fall, the herd reached the swollen, rushing White Rock River. The cattle crossing, which lay about a day north of the town of Forn’s Crossing, was a wide but normally shallow spot in the river with a small island at about the halfway point, which was now buried in the flood. There was a bridge and a ferry at the town, but these were insufficient for getting more than three thousand head of cattle across the river. Endis, Landstrom, and the other men who had taken this trail before estimated that the river at the crossing was at least twice its normal width and a good measure and a half over its usual depth, and that even after the rain stopped they would have to wait at least two or three days if not longer for the water to recede enough to allow a safe crossing.
So the outfit hunkered down to wait out the rain, trapped against an impassable river, drive hands and cattle equal in their sodden misery. All the trail hands were instructed to keep their six-shooters loaded, dry, and to hand, and to watch for rustlers and bandits who might take advantage of their plight. As well, Silas searched yet again for mages in the area, and found nothing.
He chafed at the delay. Besides his worries about rustlers and rogue mages, he had been looking forward to the stop at Forn’s Crossing. The local house ladies would distract the hands from Lainie and help them work off some of their pent-up energy, and he and Lainie could grab a hotel room for the night. In the nearly three full ninedays of the drive so far, they hadn’t been able to spend a single night together. It had been far too long, and he wanted her so bad it was starting to hurt.
The cattle were quiet that afternoon, too wet and miserable to even think of wandering off. Silas returned the horse he was on to the remounts, then sloshed his way through mud and puddles to the grub wagon, where a canopy had been put up over the cookfire and serving table. Lainie, wearing an apron embroidered with ugly kittens, and Mrs. Bington, in a complementary apron covered with misshapen puppies, were tending a steaming pot of chickroot brew and chatting with a couple of hands who were hanging around. The herd’s cattlehounds were huddled in the relative warmth and dryness under the table. As Silas watched the cozy scene, that strange feeling of being an intruder in Lainie’s world started to worm itself into his heart again.
Lainie spotted him, and a smile lit up her face. “Come have a hot cup,” she called over to him.
The moment of melancholy faded. Silas walked over to her, and she gave him a cup of chickroot brew and a kiss. “Oh, honey,” she said. “If you were any wetter, you’d be a puddle on the ground.”
He stood there, dripping, the warmth of the cup seeping through his sodden gloves. “Can you help me find something in our bags?”
Lainie glanced at Mrs. Bington. “Would that be all right, Mrs. Bington? Please?”
“If you must,” the older woman replied. “Don’t take too long.”
“I won’t, I promise,” Lainie said. She pulled her rain cape around her shoulders and over her head, then followed Silas around to the back of the wagon where their belongings were stowed.
“I don’t like being stuck here,” Silas said quietly when they were out of earshot of anyone else.
Lainie dug their knapsacks out from the pile of gear and opened one. “I don’t either.” She pretended to search through the pack. “Maybe I could break up the storm a little, so it’ll end sooner and we can move on.”
“This storm’s a lot bigger than the one you called up,” Silas said, trying to turn down her idea as gently as possible, “and I don’t see a single break in the clouds you could work with. Besides, using that much power would send a beacon to every mage for leagues around. Not that I’ve found any, but this setup is too good to resist. How about you?”
“I found two,” she said. “Not close, though. On the other side of the river. Leagues away.” Her method of detecting shielded or suppressed mages by the slight impressions they made on the power within the earth allowed her to sense them at a greater distance than Silas usually could using his mage senses.
“Wildings-born?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. The power doesn’t disappear where they are, like with a Wildings mage who’s suppressing his power. Do you reckon they might be causing this storm?”
Bington came over from one of the other supply wagons. “Can I help you find something?”
Silas cursed silently. A mage couldn’t even have a private conversation with his wife around here. Lainie saved him by speaking up. “I thought I had an extra pair of his socks in my things. All of his are soaked through.”
“All of everything is soaked through,” Bington said in his mild way. “Just wait another couple of ninedays, the dry spring weather will set in and everything will dry out till it turns to dust.”
At the moment, that prospect didn’t sound too bad. “I guess I’ll just have to wait till then for some dry socks,” Silas said. He and Lainie put away their knapsacks, then returned to the serving table.
“Took you long enough,” Mrs. Bington said.
“I’m sorry, really,” Lainie said. “I was trying to find him some dry socks. You know how important dry socks are.”
“Oh, yes. In twenty-five years of cooking on the drive, I’ve never let Mr. Bington go without clean, dry socks.”
“I hope someday I can learn to manage as well as you do,” Lainie said brightly.
“Hmpf,” Mrs. Bington replied, though she showed just a trace of a satisfied smile. Maybe she was starting to come around, Silas thought. He ate a leftover biscuit and finished his chickroot brew, making sure to compliment Mrs. Bington lavishly on her delicious hot brew, then kissed Lainie and wandered over to the remounts to get a new horse.
Back with the herd, he spent the rest of the afternoon mulling over Lainie’s discovery. He seriously doubted that the two mages Lainie had found could be causing this storm by themselves. There were too few of them, and they were too far away. And if they were on the other side of the river, they couldn’t be planning to take advantage of the herd being stalled here. They must have something else in mind – assuming they were interested in the drive at all. There were countless other kinds of mischief that rogue mages could get into. But he couldn’t assume that they weren’t interested. Best to keep a close watch for trouble once they were across the river, and to convince Lainie not to get involved if he found any.
* * *
THE RAIN ENDED by sunrise the next day, but it was another two days before the river receded enough for the island in the middle to reappear, the sign that a crossing could be safely attempted. With the water still running high and fast, there was talk of sending the wagons downstream to cross at the bridge at Forn’s Crossing, but the scouts sent out to survey the situation returned to report that the bridge had been washed out.
With a mix of excitement at being on the move again and trepidation at the difficult task ahead, the outfit got ready for the crossing. Tales made their way through the crew of drownings on past drives. It seemed that at least two or three hands were lost to river crossings every year on the big drive, even on rivers that weren’t flooded, and most cowhands, even those who knew how to swim, had a bone-deep fear of drowning. Silas understood their fear; while he was a strong swimmer, his unexpected swim in a flooded creek in the Bads, courtesy of Orl Fazar, was as close to drowning as he ever hoped to come.
The following morning, a trial was held in the river to determine the best swimmers among the drive crew and the best water horses. Silas was the first man to step forward for the test; this was one area where he was certain he had more experience than the rest of the crew, though several other hands also volunteered. The water was cold and fast, but not wildly out of control like that flash-flooded creek had been, and it also helped that he didn’t have a madman trying to drown him.
As Silas expected, he proved to be the strongest swimmer, though the other men who had volunteered for the test acquitted themselves well enough. Abenar did himself proud as well, showing himself to be one of the best swimming horses. Six of the strongest water horses, including Abenar, would help pull the wagons across the river while the others would be teamed up with the hands who were good swimmers to move the cattle through the river.
Silas, as the best swimmer, would assist Bington in getting the wagons across. The wagons would have to be unloaded and then floated across three or four times each, carrying only part of their cargo at a time along with the crew’s belongings. The rest of the hands would make the crossing a few at a time as the herd moved from the west bank to the east. Those who couldn’t swim well would cross by hanging on to the wagons. The cattlehounds would ride across in the wagons; normally they loved to swim, but well-trained cattlehounds were too valuable to risk losing to a swift river current.
Once the plan for the crossing was laid out, Silas and Lainie and a few of the hands helped Mr. and Mrs. Bington unload most of the supplies from the wagons, then the drive crew began stripping down to their underclothes. Lainie undressed between two of the wagons, and Silas, still in his drawers from the swimming test, stood in front of her, blocking her from view. “Can you swim?” he asked her. It seemed strange that he wouldn’t know this about her, but the question had never come up before.
“A little. Not real good,” she answered.
“All right, then. You’ll go across now with the first wagon, and then you’ll stay on the other side.” With her safely across, he would be able to turn his full attention to the rest of his task instead of worrying about her.
“But I need to come back to load more –”
“No.”
She gave him a look that meant she was probably going to argue some more. The hands who had finished undressing were walking over in their drawers and tossing their clothes into the wagon. A few of them actually strutted, thrusting out their chests and flexing their muscles as they passed through Lainie’s range of view. Silas moved in a little closer. She was down to her camisole and drawers now, and he thought longingly of that hotel room in Forn’s Crossing. “You’re going to stay there if I have to tie you down,” he said.
She batted her eyelashes at him. “I’m afraid that’ll cost you extra, Mr. Vendine.”
Silas laughed and kissed her, then tossed her clothes into the wagon where his already were. He made sure his hat was in there as well, securely situated. It wouldn’t get lost; of all his possessions, his hat, his horse, and his water flasks were the things he was most careful to maintain the keeper charms on. But his hat had finally dried out after all the rain and he didn’t want to have to start over again with a wet hat, especially since he couldn’t use a drying charm on it, not in front of all these Plain folk.
The swimming horses were hitched to the first wagon that would go across. Bington, resplendent in old-fashioned one-piece red underwear, took his position with the front horses. Mrs. Bington, fully clothed, sat on the driver’s seat like a queen on her throne. Supposedly, she would be managing the reins, but she was only making this one trip across. Silas supposed she considered it beneath her dignity to swim across in her underclothes like everyone else.
The first cattle started moving into the water. Most of them swam willingly, almost eagerly, and with surprising grace. You learn something new every day, Silas thought, watching them. He honestly hadn’t known that cows could swim.
Bington cracked a whip over the horses that were hitched to the wagon to start them moving. Silas made sure Lainie, who was holding on to the side of the wagon right in front of him, had a good grip. He and the other hands who had been assigned to the task, along with the first hands who would cross to meet the herd on the other side, guided the wagon as the horses pulled it down into the river.
“It’s so cold!” Lainie gasped when she hit the water. The icy water sent a shock through Silas as well, even though he’d already been in it once today. But the exertion of guiding the wagon across the strong, swift current soon warmed him up.
This first crossing seemed to take twice as long as it really did. Certain that the river would snatch Lainie away from him at any moment, Silas kept his eyes fixed on her the whole time, ready to grab her should she lose her hold and slip under the surface or be torn away by the current. The island was about twelve measures or so from the west bank; they reached it without mishap, rolled the wagon across, then descended into the other channel. They swam the fifteen measures to the east bank, then pushed the wagon up onto the bank and were safe on dry land again.
Lainie stood shivering and dripping, her arms tightly crossed across her chest, her drawers and camisole rendered nearly transparent by the water. Mrs. Bington, as dry as if she’d never been near a river, bustled over with a blanket and draped it around her. “Come now, Lainie, let’s get you out of sight of these dirty-minded hands and into some dry clothes.” She glared at Silas as though his very presence was an affront to Lainie’s virtue.
Lainie started to protest, but Mrs. Bington marched her away, and Silas didn’t try to interfere. He was just as happy to leave her safe in Mrs. Bington’s charge while he and Bington unloaded the wagon and took it back across the river to get the next load of supplies.
It took the whole day to get the herd and all the supplies across. On the final trip with the last wagon, the remaining hands who had stayed with the herd on the west bank came over, hanging on to the wagon, while the rest of the cattle were herded across the river by the men on the good water horses. The wagon rolled over the island and into the east channel, the final leg of the crossing, and Silas was looking forward to a rest and some supper after the long, hard day. And then in another day or so they would reach Forn’s Crossing, and he and Lainie could get that hotel room –
A garbled cry of “Help!” startled him out of his exhausted haze. “He got away from me!” someone shouted.
Silas looked back and glimpsed a man tumbling rapidly downstream away from the wagon, nearly buried in the rushing waters of the river. With a mighty push off the side of the wagon box, Silas started swimming after the man, cutting through and across the swift, cold current with fast, powerful strokes.
Time and distance passed without meaning in his desperate effort to catch up with the hand who was being swept away. He got close enough to see that the man was no longer struggling; he was near on the way to being drowned. Reaching deep inside himself for every last scrap of strength, Silas pulled himself forward and reached out as far as he could for the man’s ankle, but his fingers were numb with cold and the man slipped out of his grasp. He swam forward and stretched out a little harder. This time he grabbed the man more securely, and pulled him in to catch his limp body beneath the shoulders.
Carrying the man with him and fighting the powerful current, Silas angled left towards the east bank. He reached it at a spot that had been undercut by the heavy floodwaters; he grabbed some tree roots overhanging the water to pull himself out, but his frozen hand lost its grip. He scrabbled for a better hold, and this time he succeeded. Shaking from cold and exhaustion, he hauled himself and the nearly-drowned cowhand out of the river and up onto the muddy riverbank.
Gasping for breath and shivering so hard he thought he would fall to pieces, he collapsed next to the man he had rescued; Paslund, his name was. Paslund’s skin was like frozen wax, but a slow pulse beat in his neck. Silas rolled him onto his stomach and pushed down hard on his back, forcing water from his lungs and stomach. Paslund coughed and gagged, then started crying.
The energy of fear drained away, leaving Silas weak with relief and exhaustion. “It’s okay. You’re okay now. You’re safe,” he said.
“You saved me,” Paslund wept against the ground, shaking uncontrollably. “You coulda drowned but you saved me.”
Silas patted his shoulder. “That’s part of my job here – to help out fellows who get in a little trouble.”
From up the bank, he heard Lainie cry out, “Silas!” He looked over to see her running towards him, followed closely by several other men, including Endis. When she reached Silas, she fell to her knees and threw her arms around him. “I was so scared when I saw you going down the river!” she sobbed against his shoulder.
He put his arms around her. She felt so warm against his cold body. “It’s all right, darlin’. You know a little water doesn’t bother me. I didn’t even have anyone trying to drown me this time.”
The others reached them now, and Endis draped blankets over Paslund and Silas. “I’d be dead if it wasn’t for Greenie here,” Paslund said over and over through chattering teeth. “Dead an’ drowned.”
“For a greenfoot on the drive, you’re mighty useful,” someone said to Silas.
“There’ll be enough time for talk later,” Endis cut in. “Let’s get these fellas back to camp and warmed up. We got a crossing to finish.”
Leaning on Lainie as much for the warmth as for the support, Silas got to his feet and started walking upriver towards the camp. The others followed, two men supporting Paslund with his arms over their shoulders. At the camp, Mrs. Bington fussed over Paslund and Silas and started brewing them a hot, healing tea while Bington brought them their dry clothes. As the last of the cattle and horses came up onto the bank, the hands gathered around the two of them, curious about what had happened and anxious to make sure they were all right. Once he was warmed up, Silas felt pretty well revived if exhausted to the bone, and Paslund also seemed to be making a good recovery. Paslund recounted the tale of his rescue several times, and with each telling, it sounded even more exciting and dangerous.
Lainie and Mrs. Bington had started cooking supper hours before, and now, as the sun was lowering beneath the western horizon, the hands relaxed and ate. Those who enjoyed swimming waded and paddled at the edge of the river while the dogs splashed and barked, but Silas had had his fill of being in the water for the day. Too tired to move, he sat on the grassy riverbank with his hot plate of stew and cup of chickroot brew. It had been a long day filled with hard work, but an air of celebration hung over the crew that evening as they laughed and talked and sang. Thanks to the Defender and the Gatherer – and Silas – the White Rock River had been safely crossed, and the comforts of Forn’s Crossing lay just ahead.