Arrow's Rest Joel Scott (best authors to read .txt) 📖

since he’d been hurt in the time before he came over the mountain and into this place, but here it was safe. There were many of his kind on the mountain, and all of them foraged on the beaches and mud flats that bordered the end of the inlet where the river came in, and they were never bothered by man. Sometimes he’d see them watching, or smell them at a distance, but they never disturbed him, and over the years he’d grown accustomed to them and no longer considered them a danger.

He moved into a small area of brush and paused to grub up some bulbs under a spruce tree and open a ground squirrel burrow with the swipe of his paw. It was empty, only the debris of a nest and the faint scent of the litter remaining. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t far to the beach now, and there he would gorge himself before going back up the mountain to sleep. He heard a far-off engine echoing across the water, but he paid it no mind. He stopped to rest his aching leg and growled softly at the pain, biting at the place where the bullet had entered. It was always worse at this time of year when the cold came down the mountain, and sometimes he almost wished one of the young males would challenge him so he could take his rage out on him. After a few minutes his pain eased and he continued on his way down to the water.

“It has to be them,” Clarke said. “Nobody else would be anchored out here this late in the year.” The blip on the radar was six miles further down the inlet, tucked in a quarter mile offshore behind a long curving outcrop of rock that gradually tailed off as it entered the water. The chart showed a shell beach that extended to the river mouth another mile further on and merged with a large expanse of mud flats. Clarke had Legalese doing her flat-out top speed of twelve knots, and the whole boat was shaking and vibrating nervously under the strain, as if in protest after her long rest. One of the engines had developed a slight knock, and on the other one the needle on the temperature gauge was hovering just below the red line. Clarke patted the instrument console and muttered words of encouragement. “Just another fifteen minutes,” he said. “You can do it, I know you can.” The port engine responded with a sudden increased clattering and then a loud bang and Legalese’s speed dropped.

“Fuuuck!” Clarke screamed in frustration, as he pulled the locked throttles back to idle. He waited for the next shoe to drop and tried to assess the damage, but knew he didn’t really have a clue. The oil pressure was abnormally low and the engine temperature dangerously high on both engines now, but at least they hadn’t shut down. Not yet anyway. The gauges seemed locked in, neither rising nor falling, and after a minute he gingerly put the engines back in gear and Legalese moved slowly forward once more.

There was a good chance she might make it yet, but now they would definitely have to go with their second option. The three of them had been discussing plans for the last two hours, although arguing might have been a better description. Clarke had been drinking heavily, his normal reaction to stress, and the effects of this combined with his recent nautical reading had led him to the conclusion that they should “just go at them.” Steam Legalese along the channel as if heading past the Blue Harp a couple of boat lengths off, and then, at the very last possible second, swing her hard over and pull up alongside and board them. Clarke’s befuddled mind stumbled over concepts like grapnels and boarding ladders to go along with his plan, but he wasn’t up to expressing them in credible terms.

Ivery and Thomas were for a casual idling-in-alongside approach, just another friendly voyager bumbling up to engage in harmless conversation, seeking local knowledge perhaps, and a shared drink and anchorage. They saw no reason why anyone on the Blue Harp would recognize Legalese, even if they had glimpsed her at her berth in the yacht club. Her name was on the stern and couldn’t be seen from a frontal approach, it was dark and raining, and the visibility was poor. Clarke had his revolver, Ivery had brought along a pair of shotguns he used for trap shooting (a sport well suited for a man in a wheelchair, and one at which he excelled), and there was Thomas the Slab, the great equalizer. Once he was landed amongst the Blue Harp crew, things would even out in a hurry, regardless of any manpower advantage they might have.

Clarke thought his plan was much the better one, but under the circumstances there was no longer a choice. He was down to under three knots now, one engine clattering loudly even at this low speed, while both were redlining. Only another mile left to go, but it seemed to take forever.

Ignoring the frowns, Clarke poured himself another drink.

Arrow was sinking and Danny could no longer pretend otherwise. When the water inside started to rise again, he picked up his pace, taking quick strides forward and back, hurling the water out through the companionway door, and then doing it over and over again. But the water kept rising and forced him to move further and further aft. Minutes after he’d first noticed the increase, Danny was backed up and perched on the companionway steps reaching down inside and scooping up full buckets. And still the water rose, and still he bailed faster, the sweat running off him, his arms aching. Finally Joseph reached in and touched him on the shoulder and shook his head. Danny took one last look around Arrow’s cabin and joined Joseph on deck. He thought that