"Nah, I can row," Tatum said. The tall Marine had adapted to the missing limb. His right arm had compensated for the lost appendage, developing into a mass of ropy sinew greater than a large man's thigh.
"You big dumb guys are all alike," Fenstermacher snorted. "Beppo, keep an eye on Tatum. Make sure he pulls his weight. I'd hate to depend on Chief Cookie."
"Ja, you bet." Schmidt laughed, climbing aboard.
"You know, Sandy," Wilson said casually. "I bet that's one fart that would actually sink if we drop him in the middle of the river."
"Particularly if we put some rocks in his shorts," Tatum added.
"That's mutiny, assholes!" the little man snarled. "Belay the chatter, and attend your oars—smartly, I say."
Laughing heartily, Tatum walked to a stout oar and took his position. Wilson grabbed the other, and the two rowers kept the raft pointed into the current as Chastain and Fenstermacher cleared the lines.
"Lieutenant Buccari is coming," Schmidt said, pointing upriver.
Buccari, wearing a faded jumpsuit cut off at the knees, sprinted over the rocks. A pistol belt, worn like a bandolier, flopped as she ran, and her long, braided ponytail bounced behind her, flashing in the morning sun. Fenstermacher held the last line as the raft swung to the current.
Brappa circled on the weak thermal current. Craag struggled to hold altitude, still striving to catch the poorly defined updraft that Brappa had somehow managed to exploit.
"Perhaps we should return to the riverbank, Craag-thewarrior," Brappa screeched, proud that he had gained an altitude advantage.
"It is early for thermals, young friend," Craag wheezed as he flapped mightily. The veteran was not going to admit defeat. Thegreat river, deep green in the golden morning, flowed easily below them. The hunters were barely a third of the way across and rapidly approaching the point where they could no longer glide to either shore.
Below and downstream, Brappa watched the long-legs climbing onto their platform of wood.
"We could descend to the river and float over with the longlegs," said Brappa, trying to give the older hunter a face-saving alternative. The updraft stiffened. Brappa detected a satisfying lift.
"No need, Brappa, son-of-Braan," Craag screamed, suddenly heaving past Brappa' s altitude. "This updraft will boost us to heights adequate for the crossing."
Brappa acknowledged. In close formation, the hunters allowed themselves to be carried upriver by the gentle but persistent thermal.
Brappa saw the eagles.
"Thanks, Fenstermacher," Buccari hailed. She splashed thigh deep in cold water and clambered easily up the wooden structure of the raft, getting a hand from Chastain. Fenstermacher followed her aboard, bringing the last line. He grabbed the tiller and yelled orders for everyone to haul together. Schmidt sat down on a stern post next to Chastain and helped make up the lines.
"You almost missed the boat, Lieutenant," Wilson said.
"Wouldn't be the first time, Chief," Buccari replied. "I want to watch them with the horses. Tookmanian said you were heading over to forage for thickweed."
"And to pick up some buffalo, too," Wilson huffed as he pushed on his oar. "O'Toole says they got a new kill butchered and ready to go."
Buccari looked down at the splintery surface of the raft and noted bloodstains left behind by earlier cargoes. Also lying in the center of the raft was the newly constructed ramp for moving the horses onboard. Goldberg, with Honey cooing softly in her lap, sat on the fragrant, fresh-hewn wood. Buccari made eye contact with the young mother and smiled. Goldberg reciprocated with a cold nod.
"How's Honey, Pepper?" Buccari persisted. The infant was recovering from a racking cough. Several days earlier, the gardeners had prepared a sour-smelling herbal mash that Lee force-fed to the baby. It had a positive effect; the baby's cough had diminished, and the baby had recovered a healthy tone.
"Better, thanks…sir," Goldberg replied, with the warmth of a north wind.
Buccari glanced up and caught Tatum looking at her. He shrugged with sympathetic bewilderment. Buccari walked forward and sat on the front edge of the raft, legs hanging over the blunt bow. The low morning sun reflected from the river, and fish rose to summer bugs flitting and skittering over the gentle current. Fenstermacher mumbled a soft cadence for the oarsmen and steered at an angle to the easy current, keeping the raft on course for the opposite bank. With each coordinated swing of the oars, thole pins groaned in their leather pivots and the heavy raft surged forward, thrusting a crush of white water before it. Closing her eyes to the warm glare, Buccari lay on her back and allowed the splashing tempo to melt her anxieties.
Presently the raft glided into a small cove, grounding against rocks still in cool morning shade, waking Buccari from her catnap. She sat up and stretched. The rocky riverbank was steep but not high, and Chastain, mooring line in hand, jumped to dry ground. The sandy terrain leveled and then climbed steeply to a grassy clearing above the river's high-water mark. Thick undergrowth and a lush stand of trees closed in the rear of the lea. Silhouetted against the trees, MacArthur sat on a large rock at the edge of clearing. Two golden horses stood alertly behind him.
"Good morning, Lieutenant," MacArthur shouted. "You looked mighty comfortable out there." Field glasses dangled from his neck.
Buccari was impatient with Shannon, O'Toole, and MacArthur for the amount of time they had been spending with the horses. She did not appreciate their enduring absence from the camp. There was too much heavy work to do. And the horses could help. She wanted the horses transferred to the other bank.
"It must be something about this side of the river that makes everyone forget the work they're supposed to be doing," she answered.
"Ah, Lieutenant," MacArthur rebutted mildly. "We've been working hard over here, too. But you're right. We need the horses across the river."
That the horses were sufficiently docile to transport over water was amazing in itself. The first mare captured had been nervous and frightened; none of the men could calm her enough to start training. She had refused to eat or drink, and she had thrashed and struggled so much that MacArthur worried for her health—almost to the point of setting her free. However, another horse—a stallion—was caught using the same tactics employed to capture the mare. When the newly captured horse was put in the paddock with the first animal, both animals calmed down, taking food and water from the humans as if they had always done so.
MacArthur dared to mount the mare. Surprisingly, the animal reacted mildly to the presence of a human being on its back. The horse bucked and pranced about a bit, but then it just stood there, accepting the human's right to the superior position. Within another week both horses were answering basic riding commands. The stable on the north side of the river was expanded, and two more horses were captured. MacArthur, Shannon, and O'Toole were like children with their first pets.
A shrill whistle sounded overhead. Buccari looked skyward. Two cliff dwellers, membranes folded to their backs, descended in a panic. High in the deep blue heavens, two great eagles soared lazily in the bright sunlight. But lower! A third eagle had folded its wings and was plummeting from the skies in pursuit of the hunters!
Buccari leapt to her feet. The diving eagle grew larger, its spreading talons swinging downward—right for them. Reflexively, she pushed Goldberg and Honey over the side and into the deep, cold water, and dove in after. Tatum, Wilson, and Schmidt followed in quick succession, splashing noisily into the relative security of the river, clinging close to the protective overhang of the raft. Only Fenstermacher remained on deck. The resolute raft captain seized a fending pole and wielded it like a lance.