“No,” Fish whispered under his breath, willing the man with his words. “Do not come across. We are not here.” And then he tried it like his mom would do it, except she would raise her voice and her hands when she spoke, as if gathering electricity. “In the name of Jesus Christ,” whispered Fish, “I forbid you to cross.”
Fish heard the sheriff saying something, but it came over the water as a mumble. The sheriff was talking to the horse. He pointed his hat at the ground on the riverbank and then pointed it across the river. The dog paced back and forth, its nose to the ground. The sheriff spoke to the horse once more. It looked to Fish like he was trying to convince it of something.
“You shall not cross,” whispered Fish, and the sheriff looked right at his hiding place again, dropped his hat, and started to unbutton his shirt.
Fish’s heart beat faster. The sheriff removed his jacket and shirt, then his boot and socks and pants. He left them in a pile and waded into the water. The dog joined him, its bushy tail floating on the surface.
“He is coming across,” Fish said, openmouthed, and watched the sheriff lower himself into the water and begin to swim.
There was no time for stealth. Fish sprang from his hiding place and bolted through the grass toward the raft.
“Hey!” yelled the sheriff. He’d spotted him. Fish broke branches as he ran between cedars. “Hey!” the sheriff yelled again. The voice seemed farther away now, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
“Bread!” Fish shouted as he burst into the campsite. Bread shot awake and tossed his bean tin in the air.
Fish started pushing the raft toward the water with Bread still sitting on it. He rammed his shoulder into one of the A-frame posts and dug his shoes into the gravel.
“Bread! The sheriff!”
Bread was on his feet, a confused look in his eyes.
“The sheriff’s swimmin’ at us!”
Bread crouched where he stood. He’d been sleeping soundly.
“Bread, push the dang raft!”
Bread scurried around to the back side of the raft, put both hands on a post, and pushed. The raft didn’t move.
“Fish,” he asked, “are you sure you seen the—”
“Boys!” came the sheriff’s call through the trees. It sounded much closer now. The sheriff was nearly across the channel.
Bread’s eyes grew wide with fear and he punched his shoulder into the raft and began driving his feet. The raft swayed, rolled an inch, and stopped again. The boys planned to launch it using their push poles as levers. But they hadn’t cut any poles. They’d fallen asleep.
Fish’s feet slipped out from under him. Pain shot through his knee. He cussed and regained his footing. They only needed to push the raft a few feet to get it floating. Bread frantically pushed and winced in pain as his shoulder and neck pressed against the cedar log. His feet slipped on the gravel and bedrock beneath it. Fish’s hurt knee made him angry. Being chased like this made him angry.
“Boys!” came the call again, which made Bread’s efforts become even more frantic and fruitless. Fish envisioned the sheriff pulling himself onto shore, winded, rising to his feet now.
“Bread,” said Fish. The forest seemed to disappear as he spoke, as did the pain and panic. There was just the raft now, the river, and five feet to freedom.
“Bread!” he said again.
Bread stopped and stared at him. His face was pale and his cheeks were mottled. The sheriff’s voice made him shake.
“Bread, we have to push together, at the same time and in the same way, or we’re not going to make it.”
Bread took a rattling breath. Shook his head adamantly. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t.” Bread put his neck into the post again and beat against it until his feet slipped out from under him and he fell on his stomach. He lay there a moment, huffing in the dirt, blowing a tuft of grass with his mouth. “Fish, I can’t go back. I can’t. They’ll send me off. I—”
Fish watched his friend, his open mouth, pleading, blowing grass. And then he remembered the half-buried rifle they’d found. He bolted to the galley of the raft. Bread stayed in the dirt, dread on his face.
Fish came back with the old and long black-powder rifle. Bread’s face looked more desperate when he saw it, until he saw what Fish was doing with it. Fish held the rifle like a spear over his head and drove the muzzle into the gravel beneath the edge of the raft. He then pushed up against the lever with all his might. Even by himself, he moved the raft about six inches on its rollers.
Bread was back on his feet.
“Boys!” the sheriff called. A dog barked.
“You push, I’ll lever,” Fish said. “Last chance!”
Bread had his neck and shoulder down again, driving his feet with all he had. Fish levered, repositioned, and levered again. The raft was rolling. With each heave it moved about a foot, and Bread could keep the momentum going for another foot with his driving legs.
“Push!” yelled Fish. The front of the raft gained water, nosing beneath the surface. “Push!” This time it kept moving. Slowly but certainly, the front of the raft began to rise back up out of the water, floating. Fish tossed the rifle aboard and put his shoulder into a post. The raft gained momentum. Fish felt water on his ankles, then his shins, his hips. The raft was free.
“You boys stop right where you are!” There was anger in the sheriff’s voice, and it came from directly behind them.
Bread and Fish jerked their heads around to see the sheriff standing atop the small rise above the riverbank. The dog growled and barked at his side. The sheriff was in his boxer shorts, soaking wet, his chest huffing. He began picking his way down, barefoot, through
