Course, he could ask Alvin to help him. But he already had Alvin’s answer. Leave ’em slaves, that’s what Alvin had decided. But Arthur wouldn’t do it. These men were in his hands. He was a maker now, after his own fashion, and it was up to him to decide for himself when it was right to act and right to let be. He couldn’t do what Alvin did, healing folks and getting animals to do his bidding and turning water into glass. But he could soften iron, by damn, and so he’d set these men free.
Tomorrow night.
Next morning they passed from the Hio into the Mizzippy, and for the first time in years Alvin got a look at Tenskwa Tawa’s fog on the river.
It was like moving into a wall. Sunny sky, not a cloud, and when you look ahead it really didn’t look like much, just a little mist on the river. But all of a sudden you couldn’t see more than a hundred yards ahead of you—and that was only if you were headed up or down the river. If you kept going straight across to the right bank, it was like you went blind, you couldn’t even see the front of your own boat.
It was the fence that Tenskwa Tawa had built to protect the reds who moved west after the failure of Ta-Kumsaw’s war. All the reds who didn’t want to live under white man’s law, all the reds who were done with war, they crossed over the water into the West, and then Tenskwa Tawa . . . closed the door behind them.
Alvin had heard tales of the West from trappers who used to go there. They talked of mountains so sharp with stone, so rugged and high that they had snow on them clear into June. Places where the ground itself spat hot water fifty feet into the sky, or higher. Herds of buffalo so big they could pass by you all day and night, and next morning it still looked like there was just as many as yesterday. Grassland and desert, pine forest and lakes like jewels nestled among mountains so high that if you climbed to the top you ran out of air.
And all that was now red land, where whites would never go again. That’s what this fog was all about.
Except for Alvin. He knew that if he wanted to, he could dispel that fog and cross over. Not only that, but he wouldn’t be killed, neither. Tenskwa Tawa had said so, and there’d be no red man who’d go against the Prophet’s law.
A part of him wanted to put to shore, wait for the riverboat to move on, and then get him a canoe and paddle across the river and look for his old friend and teacher. It would be good to talk to him about all that was going on in the world. About the rumors of war coming, between the United States and the Crown Colonies—or maybe between the free states and slave states within the U.S.A. About rumors of war with Spain to get control of the mouth of the Mizzippy, or war between the Crown Colonies and England.
And now this rumor of war with the Mexica. What would Tenskwa Tawa make of that? Maybe he had troubles of his own—maybe he was working even now to make an alliance of reds to head south and defend their lands against men who dragged their captives to the tops of their ziggurats and tore their hearts out to satisfy their god.
Anyway, that’s the kind of thing going through Alvin’s mind as he leaned on the rail on the right side of the boat—the stabberd side, that was, though why boatmen should have different words for “right” and “left” made no sense to him. He was just standing there looking out into the fog and seeing no more than any other man, when he noticed something, not with his eyes, but with that inward vision that saw heartfires.
There was a couple of men out on the water, right out in the middle where they wouldn’t be able to tell up from down. Spinning round and round, they were, and scared. It took only a moment to get the sense of it. Two men on a raft, only they didn’t have drags under the raft and had it loaded front-heavy. Not boatmen, then. Had to be a homemade raft, and when their tiller broke they didn’t know how to get the raft to keep its head straight downriver. At the mercy of the current, that’s what, and no way of knowing what was happening five feet away.
Though it wasn’t as if theYazoo Queen was quiet. Still, fog had a way of damping down sounds. And even if they heard the riverboat, would they know what the sound was? To terrified men, it might sound like some kind of monster moving along the river.
Well, what could Alvin do about it? How could he claim to see what no one else could make out? And the flow of the river was too strong and complicated for him to get control of it, to steer the raft closer.
Time for some lying. Alvin turned around and shouted. “Did you hear that? Did you see them? Raft out of control on the river! Men on a raft, they were calling for help, spinning around out there!”
In no time the pilot and captain both were leaning over the rail of the pilot’s deck. “I don’t see a thing!” shouted the pilot.
“Notnow ,” said Alvin. “But I saw ’em plain just a second ago, they’re not far.”
Captain Howard could see the drift of things and he didn’t like it. “I’m not taking theYazoo Queen any deeper into this fog than she already is! No sir! They’ll fetch up on the bank farther downriver, it’s no business of ours!”
“Law of the river!” shouted Alvin. “Men in distress!”
That gave the pilot pause. Itwas the law. You had to give aid.
“I don’t see no men in distress!” shouted Captain Howard.
“So don’t turn the big boat,” said Alvin. “Let me take that little rowboat and I’ll go fetch ’em.”
Captain didn’t like that either, but the pilot was a decent man and pretty soon Alvin was in the water with his hands on the oars.
But before he could fair get away, there was Arthur Stuart, leaping over the gap and sprawling into the little boat. “That was about as clumsy a move as I ever saw,” said Alvin.
“I ain’t gonna miss this,” said Arthur Stuart.
There was another man at the rail, hailing him. “Don’t be in such a hurry, Mr. Smith!” shouted Jim Bowie. “Two strong men is better than one on a job like this!” And then he, too, was leaping—a fair job of it, too, considering he must be at least ten years older than Alvin and a good twenty years older than Arthur Stuart. But when he landed, there was no sprawl about it, and Alvin wondered what this man’s knack was. He had supposed it was killing, but maybe the killing was just a sideline. The man fair to flew.
So there they were, each of them at a set of oars while Arthur Stuart sat in the stern and kept his eye peeled.
“How far are they?” he kept asking.
“The current might of took them farther out,” said Alvin. “But they’re there.”
And when Arthur started looking downright skeptical, Alvin fixed him with such a glare that Arthur Stuart finally got it. “I think I see ’em,” he said, giving Alvin’s lie a boost.
“You ain’t trying to cross this whole river and get us kilt by reds,” said Jim Bowie.
“No sir,” said Alvin. “Got no such plan. I saw those boys, plain as day, and I don’t want their death on my conscience.”
“Well where are they now?”
Of course Alvin knew, and he was rowing toward them as best he could. Trouble was that Jim Bowie didn’t know where they were, and he was rowing too, only not quite in the same direction as Alvin. And seeing as how both of them had their backs to where the raft was, Alvin couldn’t even pretend to see them. He could only try to row stronger than Bowie in the direction he wanted to go.
Until Arthur Stuart rolled his eyes and said, “Would you two just stop pretending that anybody believes anybody, and row in the right direction?”
Bowie laughed. Alvin sighed.
“You didn’t see nothin’,” said Bowie. “Cause I was watching you looking out into the fog.”
“Which is why you came along.”
“Had to find out what you wanted to do with this boat.”
“I want to rescue two lads on a flatboat that’s spinning out of control on the current.”
“You mean that’strue ?”
Alvin nodded, and Bowie laughed again. “Well I’m jiggered.”
“That’s between you and your jig,” said Alvin. “More downstream, please.??
?
“So what’s your knack, man?” said Bowie. “Seeing through fog?”
“Looks like, don’t it?”
“I think not,” said Bowie. “I think there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye.”
Arthur Stuart looked Alvin’s massive blacksmith’s body up and down. “Is thatpossible ?”
“And you’re no slave,” said Bowie.
There was no laugh when he saidthat . That was dangerous for any man to know.
“Am so,” said Arthur Stuart.
“No slave would answer back like that, you poor fool,” said Bowie. “You got such a mouth on you, there’s no way you ever had a taste of the lash.”
“Oh, it’s agood idea for you to come with me on this trip,” said Alvin.
“Don’t worry,” said Bowie. “I got secrets of my own. I can keep yours.”
Can—but will you? “Not much of a secret,” said Alvin. “I’ll just have to take him back north and come down later on another steamboat.”
“Your arms and shoulders tell me you really are a smith,” said Bowie. “But. Ain’t no smith alive can look at a knife in its sheath and say it used to be a file.”
“I’m good at what I do,” said Alvin.
“Alvin Smith. You really ought to start traveling under another name.”
“Why?”
“You’re the smith what killed a couple of Finders a few years back.”
“Finders who murdered my wife’s mother.”
“Oh, no jury would convict you,” said Bowie. “No more than I got convicted formy killing. Looks to me like we got a lot in common.”
“Less than you might think.”
“Same Alvin Smith who absconded from his master with a particular item.”
“A lie,” said Alvin. “And he knows it.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is. But so the story goes.”
“You can’t believe these tales.”
“Oh, I know,” said Bowie. “You aren’t slacking off in your rowing, are you?”
“I’m not sure I want to overtake that raft while we’re still having this conversation.”
“I was just telling you, in my own quiet way, that I think I know what you got in that sack of yours. Some powerful knack you got, if the rumors are true.”
“What do they say, that I can fly?”
“You can turn iron to gold, they say.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” said Alvin.
“But you didn’t deny it, did you?”
“I can’t make iron into anything but horseshoes and hinges.”
“You did it once, though, didn’t you?”
“No sir,” said Alvin. “I told you those stories were lies.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then you’re calling me a liar, sir,” said Alvin.
“Oh, you’re not going to take offense, are you? Because I have a way of winning all my duels.”
Alvin didn’t answer, and Bowie looked long and hard at Arthur Stuart. “Ah,” said Bowie. “That’s the way of it.”
“What?” said Arthur Stuart.
“You ain’t askeered of me,” said Bowie, exaggerating his accent.
“Am so,” said Arthur Stuart.
“You’re scared of what I know, but you ain’t a-scared of me taking down your ‘master’ in a duel.”
“Terrified,” said Arthur Stuart.
It was only a split second, but there were Bowie’s oars a-dangling, and his knife out of its sheath and his body twisted around with his knife right at Alvin’s throat.
Except that it wasn’t a knife anymore. Just a handle.
The smile left Bowie’s face pretty slow when he realized that his precious knife-made-from-a-file no longer had any iron in it.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“That’s a pretty funny question,” said Alvin, “coming from a man who meant to kill me.”
“Meant to scare you is all,” said Bowie. “You didn’t have to do that to my knife.”
“I got no knack for knowing a man’s intentions,” said Alvin. “Now turn around and row.”
Bowie turned around and took hold of the oars again. “That knife was my luck.”
“Then I reckon you just run out of it,” said Alvin.
Arthur Stuart shook his head. “You oughta take more care about who you draw against, Mr. Bowie.”
“You’re the man we want,” said Bowie. “That’s all I wanted to say. Didn’t have to wreck my knife.”
“Next time you look to get a man on your team,” said Alvin, “don’t draw a knife on him.”
“And don’t threaten to tell his secrets,” said Arthur Stuart.
And now, for the first time, Bowie looked more worried than peeved. “Now, I never said Iknew your secrets. I just had some guesses, that’s all.”
“Well, Arthur Stuart, Mr. Bowie just noticed he’s out here in the middle of the river, in the fog, on a dangerous rescue mission, with a couple of people whose secrets he threatened to tell.”
“It’s a position to give a man pause,” said Arthur Stuart.
“I won’t go out of this boat without a struggle,” said Bowie.
“I don’t plan to hurt you,” said Alvin. “Because we’re not alike, you and me. I killed a man once, in grief and rage, and I’ve regretted it ever since.”
“Me too,” said Bowie.
“It’s the proudest moment of your life. You saved the weapon and called it your luck. We’re not alike at all.”
“I reckon not.”
“And if I want you dead,” said Alvin, “I don’t have to throw you out of no boat.”
Bowie nodded. And then took his hands off the oars. His hands began to flutter around his cheeks, around his mouth.
“Can’t breathe, can you?” said Alvin. “Nobody’s blocking you. Just do it, man. Breathe in, breathe out. You been doing it all your life.”
It wasn’t like Bowie was choking. He just couldn’t get his body to do his will.
Alvin didn’t keep it going till the man turned blue or nothing. Just long enough for Bowie to feel real helpless. And then he remembered how to breathe, just like that, and sucked in the air.
“So now that we’ve settled the fact that you’re in no danger from me here on this boat,” said Alvin, “let’s rescue a couple of fellows got themselves on a homemade raft that got no drag.”
And at that moment, the whiteness of the fog before them turned into a flatboat not five feet away. Another pull on the oars and they bumped it. Which was the first time the men on the raft had any idea that anybody was coming after them.
Arthur Stuart was already clambering to the bow of the boat, holding onto the stern rope and leaping onto the raft to make it fast.
“Lord be praised,” said the smaller of the two men.
“You come at a right handy time,” said the tall one, helping Arthur make the line fast. “Got us an unreliable raft here, and in this fog we wasn’t even seeing that much of the countryside. A second-rate voyage by any reckoning.”
Alvin laughed at that. “Glad to see you’ve kept your spirits up.”
“Oh, we was both praying and singing hymns,” said the lanky man.
“How tallare you?” said Arthur Stuart as the man loomed over him.
“About a head higher than my shoulders,” said the man, “but not quite long enough for my suspenders.”
The fellow had a way about him, right enough. You just couldn’t help but like him.
Which made Alvin suspicious right off. If that was the man’s knack, then he couldn’t be trusted. And yet the most cussed thing about it was, even while you wasn’t trusting him, you still had to like him.
“What are you, a lawyer?” asked Alvin.
By now they had maneuvered the boat to the front of the raft, ready to tug it along behind them as they rejoined the riverboat.
The man stood to his full height and then bowed, as awkward looking a maneuver as Alvin had ever seen. He was all knees and elbows,
angles everywhere, even his face, nothing soft about him, as bony a fellow as could be. No doubt about it, he was ugly. Eyebrows like an ape’s, they protruded so far out over his yes. And yet . . . he wasn’t bad to look at. Made you feel warm and welcome, when he smiled.
“Abraham Lincoln of Springfield, at your service, gentlemen,” he said.
“And I’m Cuz Johnston of Springfield,” said the other man.
“Cuz for ‘Cousin,’ ” said Abraham. “Everybody calls him that.”
“They donow ,” said Cuz.
“Whosecousin?” asked Arthur Stuart.
“Not mine,” said Abraham. “But he looks like a cousin, don’t he? He’s the epitome of cousinhood, the quintessence of cousiniferosity. So when I started calling him Cuz, it was just stating the obvious.”
“Actually, I’m his father’s second wife’s son by her first husband,” said Cuz.
“Which makes us step-strangers,” said Abraham. “In-law.”
“I’m particularly grateful to you boys for pickin’ us up,” said Cuz, “on account of now old Abe here won’t have to finish the most obnoxious tall tale I ever heard.”
“It wasn’t no tall tale,” said old Abe. “I heard it from a man named Taleswapper. He had it in his book, and he didn’t never put anything in it lessen it was true.”
Old Abe—who couldn’t have been more than thirty—was quick of eye. He saw the glance that passed between Alvin and Arthur Stuart.
“So you know him?” asked Abe.
“A truthful man, he is indeed,” said Alvin. “What tale did he tell you?”
“Of a child born many years ago,” said Abe. “A tragic tale of a brother who got kilt by a tree trunk carried downstream by a flood, which hit him while he was a-saving his mother, who was in a wagon in the middle of the stream, giving birth. But doomed as he was, he stayed alive long enough on that river that when the baby was born, it was the seventh son of a seventh son, and all the sons alive.”