Free Fevre Dream by George R.R. Martin Page B

the
Southerner
’s paddle wheels had cut them all up into a thousand fiery pieces.
    For a few moments it looked easy. The
Fevre Dream
surged forward, steam and smoke flying from her, American flags fore and aft flapping like the devil, her wheels slapping against the water in an ever-faster tempo, engines rumbling below. The gap between her and the other steamer began to diminish visibly. But the
Southerner
was no
Mary Kaye,
no two-bit stern-wheeler to be left behind at will. It wasn’t long before her captain or her pilot realized what was going on, and her reply was a taunting lurch of speed. Her smoke thickened and came streaming back at them, and her wake grew even more violent and choppy, so Kitch had to swing the
Fevre Dream
wide a bit to avoid it, losing part of the current as he did. The distance between them widened again, then held steady.
    “Keep after her,” Marsh told his pilot after it was clear that the two steamers were holding their positions. He left the pilot house and went searching for Hairy Mike Dunne, who he finally located on the forecastle of the main deck, with his boots up on a crate and a big cigar in his mouth. “Round up the roustas and deckhands,” Marsh said to the mate. “I want ’em to trim boat.” Hairy Mike nodded, rose, ground out his smoke, and started bellowing.
    In a few moments most of the crew could be found aft and larboard, to partially offset the weight of the passengers, the majority of whom were crowded up forward and starboard to watch the race. “Damn passengers,” Marsh muttered. The
Fevre Dream,
now slightly better balanced, began to creep up on the
Southerner
once more. Marsh returned to the pilot house.
    Both boats were going at it hard now, and they were pretty well matched. Abner Marsh figured the
Fevre Dream
was more powerful but it wasn’t enough. She was heavily laden with freight and running low in the water and in the
Southerner
’s wake to boot, so the waves kicked up over her head a bit and slowed her, while the
Southerner
skipped along easy as you please, with nothing aboard but passengers and nothing ahead but a clear river. Now, barring breakdowns or accidents, it was up to the pilots. Kitch was intent at the wheel, handling her easy, doing his damndest to pick up a few minutes at every chance. Behind him, Daly and the vagabond pilots were babbling away, full of advice on the river and its stage and how best to run it.
    For more than an hour the
Fevre Dream
chased the
Southerner,
losing sight of her once or twice around bends, but edging closer each time as Kitch shaved it tight coming around. Once they got close enough so Marsh could make out the faces of the passengers leaning on the other boat’s aft railings, but then the
Southerner
kicked forward again and restored the distance between them. “Bet you they just changed pilots,” Kitch said, spitting a wad of tobacco juice into a nearby cuspidor. “See the way she perked up there?”
    “I seen,” Marsh growled. “Now I want to see us perk up a mite too.”
    Then they got their break. One moment the
Southerner
was holding steady in front of them, sweeping around a densely wooded bend. Then all of a sudden her whistle started to hooting, and she slowed, and trembled, and her side wheels started to back.
    “Careful,” Daly said to Kitch. Kitch spat again and moved the wheel, carefullike, and the
Fevre Dream
nosed across the turbulent wake of the
Southerner
to go wide and starboard of her. When they were halfway round the bend, they saw the cause of the trouble; another big steamer, main deck all but buried beneath bales of tobacco, had run aground on a sandbar. Her mate and crew were out with spars and winches, trying to grasshopper her over. The
Southerner
had almost run right into ’em.
    For a long few minutes the river was chaotic. The men on the bar were all shouting and waving, the
Southerner
backed like the devil, the
Fevre Dream
steamed toward clear water. Then