“What’s in the wagon?” asked Massey. He knew he was probably picking a fight, but he didn’t care.
The wagoners stared him down. “It’s a cotton bale,” lied their leader. “We’rrre taking it to market.”
Floyd laughed at the bold-faced lie. “You got a cotton patch in the woods somewhere?”
“Yeah,” said the tall stranger. “That’s rrright.”
Massey pointed at the bale in the wagon. “Kind of little for a cotton bale, ain’t it?”
“We ain’t verrry good farmers,” answered the lead wagoner. The crossbowmen smirked.
Massey’s thick neck was bulging, and his face turned as red as the sunburned wagoners’. “You’re a liar, stranger! I know that’s a bale of bird plumes.”
The four crossbowmen raised their weapons again and fingered the triggers. “That’s rrright,” sneered their leader. “What do you aim to do about it?”
Aidan could see that letting Massey and Floyd do the talking wasn’t going to work. And they certainly weren’t going to be able to fight their way out of this mess. Besides being outnumbered, he and the alligator hunters didn’t have a weapon among them. He spoke for the first time since they had hailed the wagon. “Ahem,” he gestured at the lead plume hunter. “Could I have a word?” He gave a broad, knowing wink. The plume hunter waved him over, and they stepped off the trail while the rest of the plume hunters continued to hold Floyd and Massey at arrowpoint.
Aidan spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone. “My friends here are a little old-fashioned. Not what you’d call men of the world. But they’re harmless.”
The stranger didn’t react, but he seemed to be listening. Aidan continued: “The way I look at it, if folks in Tambluff-or Pyrth, even-want plumes, they’re going to get plumes. They might as well get them from you. Am I right?” The stranger raised his eyebrows. He was warming up just a little.
“Here’s the thing,” said Aidan, leaning in a little closer. “I know a man who’d be very interested in your plumes.”
“I’ve alrrready got a buyer,” answered the plume hunter.
“Where’s your buyer?” asked Aidan. “Tambluff? Middenmarsh?” The stranger didn’t answer. Aidan was undeterred. “That’s a long way to haul such a valuable load.” He pointed at the armed men who were menacing his friends. “It’s a long time to pay four guards.” He paused dramatically. “I know a man at the edge of the wilderness.”
“I’m listening,” said the stranger. He was calculating what the saved travel days would mean to him.
“Follow this trail to its end at the River Road.” Aidan was whispering now. “Turn north on the River Road, and the first farmstead you come to is called Longleaf. Ask for Errol.”
“This Errol,” asked the plume hunter, “does he pay market price?”
“He’ll give you exactly what’s due you,” Aidan assured him.
“’Cause plume hunting ain’t easy,” said the hunter, “and I aim to collect what I’ve got coming to me.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” said Aidan. “Errol will give you everything you’ve got coming to you.” He found it hard not to smile at the thought of his father giving these rogues what they deserved. That would put a spring back in the old boy’s step. Aidan only wished he could be there to see it.
“Tell you what,” said Aidan. “You call your guards off my friends there, and I’ll even write you a letter to hand to Errol when you get there.”
The plume hunter thought a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?” he said. He motioned to the crossbowmen again, and again they pointed their weapons at the ground. The tall stranger looked under the seat of the wagon and found a sheet of palmetto paper, an inkpot, and a quill pen made from an egret plume, gaudily fluffy and as long as Aidan’s forearm. Such a dandyish writing instrument seemed comically out of place in the wilderness, but the plume hunter seemed proud of it. Aidan nodded in mock appreciation and began writing: Dear Errol-
The bearer of this letter and his four companions are plume hunters I met in the Eastern Wilderness. As we recently discussed, I trust you will take real pleasure in dealing with them.
Yours sincerely, Aidan
Standing with Massey and Floyd, Aidan waved to the plume hunters as their wagon disappeared down the trail.
“What was that all about?” asked Massey when the wagon was gone.
“Boys,” answered Aidan, “today wasn’t the day for us to take care of those lying, thieving, no-account, big-haired poachers. But I sent them to somebody who will.” The alligator hunters looked quizzically at him. “Remember yesterday when Father said he’d like to get his hands on a few plume hunters?” They nodded their heads. “He’s about to get his chance.”
Aidan glanced to the northwest, back toward Longleaf, wondering what would happen to the plume hunters when they got there. That’s when he noticed darkening clouds in the west. Lightning split the sky, followed by rumbling thunder. He pointed at the approaching storm. “That might be the help we need!”
The rain started before they got to Bullbat Bay. It was a frog-strangler, with big, heavy drops driving down, whipped into the men’s faces by an angry wind. It was the kind of rain that could raise the level of the river a few inches if it could keep it up long enough, or if it rained enough along the creeks that fed the river upstream from the raft. And all they needed were a few extra inches of water.
By the time they got back to the sandbar, the river had risen enough that the Headstrong, though not yet clear of the sand, was starting to sway a little in the water. The raft’s crew stood on the sandbar, exposed to the lashing wind and rain, cringing at the earth-shaking thunder and rejoicing in the power of a creation that could lift a hundred-ton raft of logs and place it back on its path. When the rising Tam freed the Headstrong, Massey, Floyd, and Aidan were on it, eager to continue their voyage to Last Camp.
By the time the rain stopped, Aidan was having second thoughts about sending five armed and dangerous plume hunters to his father’s house. He pulled a sheet of palmetto paper out of his pack and cut a narrow strip. He wrote a brief message to his father. Five plume hunters coming your way. Armed. Be ready. Aidan.
He wrapped the message around the leg of Jasper’s homing pigeon with a piece of twine and let the bird go.
Watching the pigeon dart upriver toward Longleaf, Aidan felt good about the old warrior’s chances against the five unsuspecting plume hunters. Errol had no shortage of strong men to call on for such occasions. More to the point, as official magistrate of Hustingshire and the Eastern Wilderness, Errol had the authority to deal with criminals in those regions. Aidan felt sure it would revive his father’s spirits to administer a bit of frontier justice on the very people who represented the demise of the wild Corenwald he knew so well. Aidan turned his face back toward Last Camp and smiled.
Chapter Ten
The whole population of Last Camp-six hunters, a camp cook, and fourteen very eager hunting dogs-was waiting at the landing when the Headstrong nosed into the bank. It was nearly dark, three days since the raft had left Longleaf and more than two weeks since the men at Last Camp had seen Floyd and Massey. Amid much hooting, back slapping, and coonskin cap tossing, the three raftsmen stepped ashore with the swaggering confidence of real rafthands.
“Here’s your stockade, boys,” announced Floyd. And because he could never resist tweaking Cooky, he added, “Now, where’s my supper?”
“I thought you was drownded,” grumbled the crusty old cook, his wiry gray beard wagging. “It’s bad enough you two coming back alive right before supper,” he waved his ladle toward Aidan, “without you bringing an extry mouth for me to feed.”