Deathlands 32 - Circle Thrice by James Axler;Laurence James

Author:James Axler;Laurence James
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Action & Adventure, General, Romance, Science Fiction, Adventure, Men's Adventure, Fiction
ISBN: 9780373625321
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 1996-09-14T05:00:00+00:00

JUST PAST SAVANNAH the Tennessee forked, split down the middle by a gigantic spit of muddy yellow sand.

Doc was at the helm, and he called out for instructions.

"Right or left? Should I sail for port or for starboard? Starboard or larboard? Red light or green? Keep off the lee shore, Mr. Hornblower! Pass the starboard I mean, pass the port, if you please." He was grinning broadly, the light breeze tugging at his silvery mane of hair. "Clockwise or counterclockwise or widdershins about?"

Ryan had been sitting on the roof of the cabin, and he stood, balancing with care, trying to see which of the channels seemed the better option.

"Try left, I think," he called, then hesitated. "No, make that right. Seem to be shallows to the left. Yeah, steer her to the right, Doc."

The makeshift steering oar creaked as Doc heaved at it, sending the lumbering craft crabbing its way to the side, passing the soft shallows on the left.

"Boat ahead," Krysty called.

Everyone looked down the Tennessee, where it bent to the right. Just on the crown of the bend was a small rowboat, with a pair of oars rising and falling in perfect rhythm.

It was coming upriver toward them, making fine progress against the sluggish current. Because of the way that they were facing, the oarsmen had no idea that they were closing fast with the raft.

Ryan waited until they were fifty yards ahead and then hailed them.

"Yo the boat!"

If he'd launched a frag gren at them, it would hardly have had more effect.

The man on the left caught a crab, his oar digging in deep, the loom rising and hitting him under the chin, sending him sprawling flat on his back in the bottom of the little boat. His companion tried to look around while carrying on rowing, which meant that his oar completely missed the water, flailing around in the air like a demented windmill.

"What the fuck is this?" yelled the man lying sprawled on his back, kicking his little legs in the air, his arms whirling as he tried desperately to recover his balance and regain his seat on the thwart.

"Sorry to startle you," Ryan called. "But you were going fair to hit us."

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.

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