Chapter 8 - CHOICES


"I rather believe we've been snookered, compadres." Cyr observed caustically.

BALI had been quartering the empty waters over the Jones Ground all morning, working a LORAN grid under reduced sail and power, and the crew was getting testy. They were making their last survey of the southwest quadrant, and it was obvious there was no buoy to be found.

"So what's Plan B?" Caldwell, asked.

Walker and Cyr shared a glance. Walker shrugged.

"If the Colombian missed the drop, he'll call Rizzo from St. John. We can find out from him, but we're not supposed to radio from here, just in case the Coasties or someone is listening and could do a fix. Complete radio silence, Rizzo said," Walker reported, without a hint of the Coonass.

"What if he made the drop, and it's gone?" Caldwell prodded.

"Then we better get it back, or get real gone ourselves," Cyr said. "The Cowboy and I are into Rizzo for 50 big ones, and this was supposed to be our payback."

"Payback is a bitch," Walker mused.

"And you think Dow was on that fishing boat?" Caldwell asked Cyr.

Walker's head came up. "What's that?" He asked sharply.

"We were almost run down by a fishing boat last night," Caldwell told him, " and Cyr thought it looked like Sumner Dow at the wheel."

"The Dirty Dowist," Walker mused. "May wonders never... Do you think he picked up the drop?"

Caldwell shrugged. "Doesn't seem likely, but what else have we got? He was headed on the opposite course, more or less."

"But the Dreadful Dowser was straightness itself, Kemosabe," Cyr observed.

"Yeah, but he did manage to ride the Bruiser's lil filly, and get his rodeo privileges suspended, now dint he?" Walker's drawl was coming back.

Eliot Brewster had been the Chemistry master at Phillips Academy, and his daughter Elizabeth, a stunning redhead, had filled the adolescent dreams of manys the young stud at that all-male bastion. But it was Sumner Dow who had fallen the hardest, been the most persistent, and .. if rumor was right.. had actually taken the prize. One thing for sure, Sumner had been expelled overnight in the last semester of his senior year, and bedding a young lady on campus was sure grounds for expulsion. Drinking, cheating, or failing, would get you the door, too, but Sumner Dow had been exemplary in those departments, if not known for understatement. Dow had written editorials for the school paper which seldom failed to raise the backhairs of the Dean of Students, B.Bennett Greenfield, a pompous and mean-spirited tyrant who lorded it over the "boys," and controlled their college admissions. They called him B-squared, with reference to the shape of his bald head.

"No tellin what happen when da cowboy go bad," Walker went on.

"Did we ever ascertain what became of the young scoundrel?" Cyr's accent was thickening, too, as a bit of hope rose.

"I know he was from Maine," Caldwell said. "We used to talk boats. His father was manager at one of Stinson's plants, I think. Prospect Harbor, maybe. I never heard if he went to college."

"Certainly not dear old Yale," Cyr said down his nose. He and Walker had graced those ivied halls. Cyr had gravitated to the Drama School entourage, while Walker had been a high muckamuck at his club. Someone as outspoken as Sum Dow wouldn't have escaped their notice.

"Nor Bowdoin," said Caldwell.

"I fancy Lizzy-Brew went to the Cliffe," Cyr mused. "I seem to remember her in their dance troupe."

"Ah fancy you-all tried to tup yah way trough da troupe, you," Walker was regaining his confidence. "Did da bronc trow you?"

"She WAS a little snooty, if I may opine." Cyr condescended.

"But he wasn't at Harvard?" Caldwell asked.

"I fancy we'd've heard noxious murmurs," Cyr answered.

"Not to mention critical reviews," Caldwell thought to himself.

BALI was hove-to, rising and falling to the residual swells under mizzen and storm jib. The wind had gone down as they searched. The trio sat thinking their own thoughts as the sails shivered, and the Concordia rocked.

"OK. Let's say these fishermen found the drop," Caldwell finally spoke. "Whoever they are, won't they turn it in to the authorities?"

"Heaven forbid." Cyr intoned. "All that magnificent blow, not to mention the recompense."

"That'll mean the Coasties and everyone else will be out searching for some bad guys," Caldwell went on. "So we should sheer off and be elsewhere."

"Nahd so fast, pahdner," Walker objected. "Maybe da sheriff come check us out. What he fine? Good ol boy havin voyage. Clean as da houn's toot. But what if da rustler he keep da cattle? Mebbe we make da cows come home."

"Shouldn't we call Rizzo?" Caldwell asked. Both his partners stiffened, and shook their heads.

"Not yet. Maybe not ever," Walker said slowly, his accent gone again. "Let him play with his ponies."

After a long silence, Caldwell spoke again. "I'd guess they were out of Smithport," he said. "That would be about the right heading. We were outside Rogue when we changed course, and Smithport's the only big port along that coast."

"Saddle up for Smitport," Walker decided.

"OK," Caldwell agreed. He reached down and switched on the motor, which rattled into life, let it idle for a minute while he shortened up the topping lift until the main boom rose off its crutch, which he unshipped and stowed. He untied the tiller, and throttled up the engine until BALI had headway.

"Just keep her nose into it," he instructed Walker giving him the tiller. Then Caldwell loosed the jibsheets, freed and and shook out the mainsheet, went forward along the boom freeing the mainsail from its gaskets and opened the foredeck hatch, reached below, and hauled up the big jenny. Cyr had followed him.

"I'll douse the storm jib, and you can hank on the jenny, " he said. Cyr nodded. Caldwell loosed the jib halyard and Cyr bundled in the heavy canvas as it descended, unclipped it from the forestay. Then Caldwell inserted the halyard winch handle, and began to crank up the main. Cyr didn't have a lot of sailing experience, but he was a quick study, and he had the jib all hanked and the halyard shackled on by the time the main was fully spread, and the wet shaken out of it.

"OK, stow that stormsail below," Caldwell instructed, and swiftly hauled the jenny up to the masthead. Cyr ducked into the forehatch as the big canvas flogged in the breeze.

"Sheer off, Cowboy," Caldwell cried aft, pointing to starboard, joy in his voice for the first time all day. As BALI 's sails filled out, Caldwell scurried into the cockpit, and began pulling her sheets taut.

"That's good," he commanded Walker. "Keep her there." And he winched in the big jenny until BALI heeled onto her fat sections, quickened her pace, and started to sing.

"Eee-haw! Ridem, cowboy," Walker crowed.

Cyr's head appeared in the companionway.

"Gentlemen, a stirrup cup," he proposed, waving a bottle of Calvados.

"To los kat-tel, an da bole buckaroo," Walker pledged, as BALI surged toward Smithport.