Chapter 3

Juliet wondered how on earth Shawn and Gus had gotten so far. She sat back and watched them bicker over who was the more likely to have died the night of the steamboat accident—Gus insisted that, since he had been knocked unconscious and washed ashore where Declan found him, he had been closer to death, but Shawn was certain that he would have drowned had he not caught hold of the raft to stay afloat. Juliet couldn't bring herself to decide whether it mattered "who almost died more than the other."

Boys, she thought, shaking her head. She tied the bonnet under her chin. Shawn had informed her that there was no way she could pass as a boy in the daylight, and Gus told her it was iffy even in the darkness, so she had changed back into her normal clothes. It was a shame. She'd liked wearing the pants.

"Whatever, I can't do this with you," Shawn said with fond exasperation.

"Tsk!"

"Tsk!"

"TSK!"

"There's the next landing," Shawn pointed out, abandoning the banter.

The pier was nearly completely submerged in the murky water, which playfully danced and sparkled under the bright sunlight. An old man sat in a wooden chair, sleepily fishing without realizing that his line was tangled. Shawn turned the rudder so that the raft headed toward the dock. Looking past the muddy road, Juliet could just make out some buildings beyond the trees.

She could wait for Declan there.

Gus reached out and slipped the rope around one of the posts, anchoring the raft. Shawn poured the money they had gotten from the gold pendant into his hand, then divided it up equally, as had been the plan from the beginning. He put half back into the bag, then handed it to Juliet.

She smiled at him. "Well," she said. "Good luck with your aunt, Shawn. Good luck, Gus."

"You, too," Shawn said.

Gus nodded.

"I wish we could come up there with you, Jules," Shawn said apologetically. "But we're going to get going as soon as possible. We can never stay too long in one place."

"No, I understand," Juliet said. "Don't worry about it. Shawn…I really appreciate everything you've done." Then, without seeming to think about it, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

Shawn blushed.

The boys watched as Juliet stepped off the raft and onto the pier, walking off without a backwards glance. Gus gave Shawn a sidelong look. "You just got kissed by an older woman," he said. "And you did not say anything smooth, Shawn."

"Shut up, Gus!"

"You should have kissed her back, Shawn. She wanted it."

"I said shut up!"

"Shouldn't we be getting out of here?"

"You know that's right," Shawn replied. He reached over and unlooped the rope, then, with Gus' help, guided the craft around the dock. Gus got a faceful of tangled fishing line, but they made it out okay.

"Wait!"

The boys turned, startled, to see Juliet running back towards them. Her bonnet slipped, freeing her long blond hair, and she was again showing much more leg than generally acceptable by holding her skirts up and out of the way. Shawn made a grab for one of the posts, but missed—the raft was too far, and the current too swift to battle.

"What is it?" he yelled at her.

But she didn't respond just then. Instead, she reached the end of the pier—and didn't stop. Juliet leapt. Shawn instinctively held out his arms to catch her, and took her full weight. She being a few years older, and therefore bigger, than he, both crashed hard onto the raft, which bobbed violently under the sudden impact. Water splashed over the boards, wetting them a bit.

"Are you okay?" Gus exclaimed.

Juliet quickly pushed herself up, then helped Shawn, who didn't let on that Juliet had nearly squashed him like a hotcake. "Sorry!" she said, rearranging her garments.

"What's the matter, Jules?" Shawn asked, confused.

She cleared her throat, cheeks tinging pink. "I've decided that…that—well, I've changed my mind, is all."

The boys stared at her, exchanged a glance, then stared at her some more.

"I mean," she continued awkwardly, "well, you two will need all the help you can get. Declan can take care of himself, you know. I'll send a letter to my parents and to Declan, in case he's still there, so he'll know where to find me. Besides, I need to get as far away as possible, too. And a young girl like me shouldn't be traveling by herself."

Gus wiggled his eyebrows at Shawn as though to say, "She likes you, Shawn."

Shawn scowled at his friend. To Juliet, he said, "I guess you're right. You can come with me and Gus for as long as you like. We can—oh!"

The trio lurched to one side in surprise as the raft came to a sudden stop. It had gotten caught on a sawyer—now that they had hit it, Shawn could see the submerged trees where they had fallen during the rainy season. They sat in stunned silence for a few minutes, untangling themselves.

"We're stuck!" Gus cried.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Shawn shot back. "Hold on. Maybe if I…" He lowered one leg into the water and swung it around, hoping to connect with whichever branch held them captive. "Ugh. It's no good!"

"One of us has to go ashore and find someone to help," Juliet said wisely.

"But what if we break free while whoever went is gone?" Gus asked.

"You're right," Shawn nodded. "We'll have to figure something else out."

"We could be stuck out here for hours before anyone else comes by," Juliet protested.

"True," Shawn frowned. "Well, I'll go find somebody. If you guys do break free before I'm back, find a place to shore the raft until I come back."

"Okay," Gus and Juliet agreed.

"Be careful, Shawn," the runaway slave said. "Seriously."

"Careful's my middle name!"

"No, it's not, Shawn. Your middle name is Orlando."

"Which makes my initials S.O.S., which is code for careful."

"S.O.S. means Save Our Ship, Shawn."

"That's what I'm trying to do, Gus! Pay attention."

With that, Shawn hopped off the watercraft and swam to the bank. He shook himself like a wet dog, clambered up onto the grass, and looked both ways. Then he headed off back towards the dock, where hopefully the old fisherman might make himself useful. The river had carried them pretty far in only a few minutes; if they had been manning the rudder, they'd have been fine. Oh well.

He walked for several yards before he spotted someone in the trees. Shawn guessed he was a hunter, since the tall, lanky man carried a shotgun over his shoulder.

"Hey!" he called, waving for attention.

The man whipped around, startled, and nearly leveled the weapon before realizing it was a child. His hawkish face contorted into a ruffian scowl. "What?" he snapped.

Shawn supposed his mood was soured because he hadn't had much luck with his hunting. But there was no one else around at the moment, it seemed, so the grouch would have to do. "Can you help us?"

Blue eyes darted around and spotted no one with the boy.

Helping him out, Shawn pointed, sleeve dripping, back in the direction he had come. "Our raft is snagged on a sawyer."

The man eyed Shawn's wet clothes, and apparently decided that he was telling the truth. "Your raft, you say?" he asked.

"Yeah. We need help getting it unstuck. We can't reach the snag." Shawn appraised the stranger. "Your legs look long enough for the job."

The man's lips twitched a bit. Shawn himself hadn't noticed the difference, but when he had said the last, Shawn acted and sounded very much like his stern father. The stranger frowned, apparently considering whether he should help.

"Please," Shawn added at last.

But the man still hesitated. A mixture of emotions crossed his face, though mostly in his eyes. Shawn thought he saw something like regret, but he didn't enquire into it because the man started off in the direction of his raft.

"You're gonna help?"

He received a grunt in response, which the kid supposed was a yes.

"I told Gus and Jules that if they broke free without me, they should wait for me downriver, but I don't think the raft can break away on its own. Are you a hunter? Why do you have so many guns?" For the man carried four guns, Shawn noticed: the shotgun, two pistols in a shoulder harness under his jacket, and another pistol holstered at his hip. "Can I hold one? Touch one? What's your name? Mine is Shawn. Look, there they are!"

He needn't have pointed them out, because the raft and its remaining occupants were clearly beholden. Gus and Juliet waved, happy to see a rescuer. Gus' head was drenched; he'd attempted to spot the obstruction by looking underwater, but hadn't been able to see through the murkiness. The man paused and glared, jaw clenched.

"What's the matter?" Shawn asked. He thought his new friend appeared to be frustrated, maybe at the prospect of having to get wet in order to help.

"Nothing," he grunted. He immediately began to strip himself of his weapons, laying them on the grass, and emptied his pockets of their contents, which included a badge.

"You're a sheriff!" Shawn exclaimed.

"Shh!"

Shawn clapped a hand over his mouth. "You're a sheriff," he said more quietly, eyebrows quirked in confusion.

The stranger exhaled through his nose, then fixated Shawn with a stern look. "Don't touch my things," he said. He slipped out of his polished shoes, then waded out into the water to free the companions.

The boy waited for the stranger to reach the raft—being tall, the water only reached his chest—before kneeling next to his belongings. The weaponry and badge were well cared for, but his leather wallet was worn and probably had some sentimental value. One of the objects was a folded piece of paper, which immediately set Shawn's curiosity abuzz. Shooting a discrete glance towards the busied officer of the law, he snatched it up and peeked at it.

His eyes widened in horror, jaw dropping. Heart thudding, Shawn looked across the water. Gus and Juliet were clinging to the raft boards as the man tried to wrench it free—and Shawn became suddenly and excruciatingly aware that the both of them could be tipped off the raft and left to drown. Gus might be okay, but Juliet's dress would drag her down and tangle her legs, and he wasn't even sure that she could swim.

There was only one thing Shawn could do.

"Hey!" he shouted.

Everyone turned to look at him.

"Shawn!" Juliet cried, horror-struck. "Put that gun down!"

It was heavier than he expected it to be—his dad had never let him hold a fully loaded gun before—but Shawn held the pistol steadily aimed directly at the man he had brought.

"What are you doing, Shawn?" Gus despaired.

The stranger only stared at Shawn, an inscrutable expression on his face.

"You're no sheriff!" Shawn exclaimed. "Get away from my friends, you criminal. You're thinking about taking the raft for yourself, aren't you?! I'll bet your name isn't even—um."

"I never gave you a name," the man said.

"Yeah, you never gave it to me because you're a criminal!" Shawn aimed a kick at the paper he'd looked at.

"Shawn, what are you talking about?" Juliet demanded.

Still holding the gun, Shawn knelt and picked up the poster again, then held it up for all to see:

WANTED

DEAD OR ALIVE

Carlton J. Lassiter for the murder of Ernesto Chavez

A badly-sketched but recognizable portrait of the stranger Shawn had discovered in the woods followed the text.

Juliet and Gus immediately looked subdued, especially in such close proximity to a murderer. The man let out a short, frustrated sigh.

"I'm being framed," he said curtly. "I didn't murder anyone. My coworker did it."

The children were dubious.

"How can I know you're telling the truth, Lassie?" Shawn asked.

"You can't," he shrugged. "And it's Lassiter."

Juliet narrowed her eyes at him. "And you were going to take our raft?"

Lassiter opened his mouth to deny it, but then hesitated, and looked ashamed. "I was," he admitted. "But that was when I thought you were traveling with adults. I'm not going to take your transportation. All I'm trying to do is get you unstuck. Honest."

Shawn lowered the gun and glanced at the poster. "Who's Ernesto Chay-veez?"

"Chavez was a criminal. He was going to be a spy for the law, but then he got shot in the jail. Everyone thinks it was me, but it wasn't."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone."

"Well, I believe you, Lassie," Shawn told him.

"Shawn!" Gus and Juliet hissed.

"Thank you," Lassiter rolled his eyes. "And it's not Lassie, it's Lassiter."

"How come you're being framed?" Juliet asked.

Lassiter merely shrugged again. "I just know that I didn't do it, and Drimmer did."

"Your coworker's a drummer?" Gus frowned.

"No, his name is Drimmer."

"Dreamer?"

"Drimmer."

"Stop saying that," Shawn whined. "You're making me hungry 'cause it sounds like 'dinner'."

"It sounds nothing like dinner, Shawn," Gus disagreed.

"Yeah it does, Gus. Listen. Dinner."

"No, he's saying Drimmer."

"Exactly!"

"Shawn, no, you have to listen."

"Boys!" Juliet exclaimed, shutting them up. "Well, can't you talk to somebody about being framed?" she addressed Lassiter. "The judge? Or can you telegram the next town and ask for the sheriff there to come?"

"Not when there's an angry mob on my heels," Lassiter answered blandly. "But enough of this. I can take care of myself. Let me get your raft unstuck—or you can try going to town to get someone more trustworthy."

"I trust you," Shawn voted from the bank, raising his hand.

"Would you—stop waving that around!" Lassiter barked at him. "Put my gun down before you hurt someone."

Shawn rolled his eyes, but carelessly dropped the pistol back into the pile of the ex-sheriff's things.

"Will they put you in jail if they catch you?" Juliet asked.

"Undoubtedly."

"But what about a fair trial?"

Lassiter shrugged. "I have no evidence that I didn't do it," he said. "And none that Drimmer did. Listen—don't worry about it. I think if I push the raft this way, it'll…" When no one stopped him, the man cautiously took hold of the watercraft again and twisted it sharply. There was a muffled cracking sound, then the raft began to drift away. Lassiter dug his heels into the silt and held it at bay to prevent it from running up against the same sawyer. He spoke over his shoulder: "You'll have to swim out here, kid. I'll push you out into the middle."

After a moment, Shawn splashed out awkwardly, Lassiter's things bundled on his scrawny shoulder. He passed them aboard when he reached the vessel, treading water, then allowed Gus and Juliet to drag him out of the water. Lassiter scowled, seeing that Shawn had taken the liberty of stealing his things.

"You must be out of your damn mind if you think I'm going to let you take those guns, mister," he growled. "And what are you going to do with shoes way too big for any of you?"

"Push us out," Shawn said. "Is that your friend?"

Lassiter followed Shawn's gaze back toward the bank, where in the trees he saw a familiar figure. "Crap!"

"Hurry and push us out," Shawn urged him.

Lassiter did, moving into deeper water. The current grew swifter, and Juliet manned the rudder, guiding the raft straight. The officer looked back, and saw that Drimmer had moved on, apparently without seeing them.

He felt a tug on his arm and turned back.

"Get on, Lassie."

"Excuse me?" he frowned.

"Come aboard," Shawn answered. "I don't know if you realize this, but I improvise in rescuing innocent people from horrible fates."

Lassiter didn't know whether to feel touched that a trio of children invited him to come with them, wherever they were going. He debated for a moment: this was likely the only route for his getaway that would not require stealing. Shawn was still looking at him expectantly, as was Juliet. The slave boy looked a little suspicious—and that was all right with Lassiter. Suspicion was a good trait.

"I think you mean 'specialize,' Shawn," Gus informed him, without taking his eyes off of the newcomer.

"I've heard it both ways."

"No, you haven't."

"Gus, don't be this crevice in my arm."

Lassiter rolled his eyes and hoisted himself up, already aware that he was definitely going to regret ever running across these children.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Lassiter," Juliet said kindly. "Glad to have someone who can hold a decent conversation…You can hold a decent conversation, can't you?"

"My wife doesn't think so," Lassiter responded. But my mistress does…

"I guess we'll find out."

"Guess so."

When the sun began to set, Juliet managed to convince her travel companions that they could safely go ashore for the night. There were plenty of trees to conceal them, if need be, but she would very much like a hot meal, and be able to lie down without the danger of rolling off into the river. The boys at length agreed, and the raft was docked.

They begged Lassiter to regale them with action-packed heroic stories about his days as an officer of the law until he relented, but not without irritable grumbling ("I don't know how old you think I am. I've only been on the force for two years."). He told them, proudly, about the time he dueled an illegal gold miner named Pete; the time he'd had a shootout in the saloon with a robber, who hightailed it out of there, after which they continued the birthday party that had been interrupted; the time he'd discovered a dead body, and its murderer, all on his own; and, finally, the story of how he arrested Chavez, the most wanted criminal in the state of Colorado.

Then, after dinner, they spread out their jackets and blankets and went to sleep, their feet pointed towards the dying fire. Shawn was woken in the dead of night by his need to relieve himself. He sleepily prodded Gus, who muttered something and rolled over with a soft snore.

"Gus," Shawn whispered, poking his ribs. "Gus, I have to pee."

"Then go," Gus responded drowsily, rolling over again into a more comfortable position. "I don't gotta hold your hand…"

"But you should get up and pee, too," Shawn said. "Then you won't have to in the morning."

"Ask Juliet to take you if you're a scaredy-cat."

"I'm not scared!"

"Then go."

Shawn scowled, and peered into the dark shadows between the trees. He half imagined a pair of cunning, malicious eyes leering at him. He shuddered, and considered waking Juliet anyway—but then decided against it. She was sleeping too peacefully. Shawn glanced at Lassiter. Considered. Rejected—he was holding one of his pistols at the ready, the paranoid jerk.

Defeated, Shawn crawled away from the soft warmth of the embers and into the darkness of the trees. He stood and looked for a good place to relieve himself. It couldn't be too near the campsite, nor did he want to pee on an unsuspecting squirrel or frog, nor did he want to be caught off guard by a wild boar or something. He found a nice, wide oak and stepped behind it. If he moved left or right, he was able to clearly see the red glow where his friends slept, so it was impossible for him to get lost.

He untucked himself and let loose, letting out a long sigh. (Shawn didn't really know why he did, except that he always heard his dad do that in the mornings when he peed.) When his bladder was emptied, Shawn fixed his pants—and froze in sheer terror when he heard a twig snap behind him.

Don't scream, said an inward voice that sounded suspiciously like his dad's. Don't move. Whatever it is might move along without bothering you.

But the thing moved closer, and Shawn felt his impending doom oncoming. He knew he shouldn't have come alone!

"Kid?"

Shawn suddenly felt weak in the knees with relief. It wasn't a monster, but a man. He turned and saw him, and the stranger lifted the shutter on his lantern, illuminating them.

"Where are your parents?" he asked.

Shawn pointed back towards the campsite. "I just had to pee," he explained.

"Ah, okay," said the stranger, smiling amiably. "You surprised me. For a second I thought you were a ghost or something…"

"Ghosts aren't real," Shawn informed him.

"No? Well, how do you explain the haunted steamer down there?" The man pointed his lantern, but revealed nothing but more forest.

"What steamer?"

"You're not from around here, are you?" the man smiled.

"Nope. Just passing through, mister. I'm going to the east coast so I can catch a boat to France."

"France, huh?"

"Uh-huh."

"What's in France?"

"King Looey. He invited me to his castle for tea. I don't really like tea, though."

"Really."

"Uh-huh. Do you think they have pineapples in France?"

During the conversation, the stranger had moved closer as though to get a better look at Shawn, and continually glanced up towards the still-glowing fire several yards away. "I guess so," he answered absently, when Shawn repeated his question. "But you're not going to France, kid."

Shawn was startled, but not alarmed. Apparently he saw through the lie. He opened his mouth to respond, but was cut short by a harsh blow to the face. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

"Lassiter, wake up."

His eyes flew open at the same moment he lifted his weapon. Gus flinched back warily, but didn't run. The sudden movement roused Juliet as well, who rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She groaned, realizing that it was only dawn.

"What?" Lassiter snapped, without quite meaning to.

"I can't find Shawn," Gus said. "He left this note."

"Note?" the man grumbled. "What's it say?"

"I don't know," the slave answered. "I can't read."

Lassiter let out a short sigh and snatched the slip of paper, which he realized was his wanted poster—how had Shawn dug it out of Lassiter's pocket? He forgot that quickly enough when he realized that the handwriting was not that of a child's.

"Come to SS Marianna or he dies," he read.

Gus looked confused. "Why would Shawn write that? What's SS Marianna?"

"Shawn didn't write it," Lassiter said, jumping up and packing things onto the raft. "And the SS Marianna is the old steamboat wreck downstream."

"What's going on?" Juliet asked.

"Stay here," Lassiter barked, splashing into the chilly water and shoving off.

Gus and Juliet protested loudly, but the man paid them no heed, and was soon washed away by the current, which was far too cold for the young ones to brave swimming. They stood in contemplative, worried silence for a few minutes. Then, with a mutual glance, they started walking briskly downstream.

Shawn gingerly touched his bruised cheek, feeling quite miserable. The sun had started to rise, peeking in through the single porthole Drimmer had cleaned of its grime so as to give himself a good view of the river. Shawn didn't know exactly where he was; he'd woken up in an uncomfortable position on a dirty and cold floor. He knew enough to recognize that he was on a boat, probably the captain's cabin, though it was old and disused. The floor was slanted at nearly a 45-degree angle (Shawn knew nothing of geometry, but his dad did teach him how to adjust his arm to aim a gun); most of the objects in the room—chairs, papers, rat droppings, those sorts of things—were covered in a layer of dust, and had mostly gravitated towards the lowest wall, where Shawn was; knife-carved messages and names covered all four walls; and there was a musty smell that tickled Shawn's nose almost unbearably.

Worst of all, Drimmer wouldn't let Shawn talk.

He shifted on the cushion, readjusting his shirt to cover as much of his bare legs as possible—oh, was it mentioned that Shawn was no longer wearing his pants? The boy had, unfortunately, been afflicted with a terrible fear upon waking. The first thing Drimmer had done was shove the barrel of his pistol in Shawn's face, growling threateningly.

Shawn, of course, at once saw that the gun was loaded, and the man's finger was on the trigger, twitching almost imperceptibly. The threat was real.

Terror froze Shawn's blood and heated his skin; his mind whirred to a stop like a broken watch, its second hand ticking away the same second again and again—he's gonna shoot me, he's gonna shoot me, he's gonna shoot me—and the ocean roared deafeningly in his ears so that he couldn't hear what Drimmer was saying, but he understood all the same: "Not a single sound, or I'll blow your brains out, boy."

So Shawn nodded shakily, breath caught in his throat. Drimmer moved away, and wrinkled his nose in disgust as he chanced to look downwards. The poor sheriff's son felt shame as the faculty of sense returned to him. Though he had relieved himself only a few hours before, he had drunk a lot of water the previous day, and his bladder had taken the opportunity to release itself while Shawn was understandably preoccupied with other more pressing matters—such as a loaded gun in his face.

While Drimmer had returned to his watch at the window, Shawn quietly divested himself of the wet trousers, glad that his shirt was extra-large and thus more concealing. Being found without pants, he reasoned, was far less embarrassing than being found in wet ones. His captor had glanced back at the noise, but only leered nastily at him.

So there Shawn was, half-naked and trapped on a wreck with a crazy man.

It occurred to the boy that Drimmer had left some sort of ransom, perhaps to entice Lassie to come after them. But Shawn, though he knew at heart Lassie was (probably) a good man, was unsure of whether he would come. Lassiter owed him nothing, and there was no guarantee that Gus or Juliet would be able to rally him into action, or even that they would attempt to do so. He was sure that Gus would be okay as long as he stayed with them, but at the same time Shawn did not want to be left behind, never mind that Gus would be in danger just waiting for his return.

If he were able to return.

The longer Shawn suffered in silence the less hope he had. He was beginning to think that he would have to save himself, even though he wasn't wearing pants and Drimmer had a huge loaded pistol. Shawn shrank from the very idea of it. For all his independence and bravery in the face of danger, those were matters which he often was able to talk himself out of, or at least had a chance of escape or distraction. Drimmer appeared to have a one-track mind and a low tolerance for what his father would call shenanigans.

He wracked his brain for a good idea, but without Gus to bounce them off or shoot them down, Shawn had nothing. He didn't dare try anything.

The miserableness continued.

Shawn had counted all the spots on the ceiling twice before Drimmer made any kind of significant movement. He glanced over warily and saw that the man was smirking, which wasn't unusual for him, but Shawn could tell that he had seen something out of the window. "Come here," he ordered curtly, gesturing with the weapon.

The child hesitated only for a moment, considering whether his pants might be dry enough to wear now and whether Drimmer would let him put them on—but if the former were true, Drimmer was too impatient to allow its execution. So Shawn nervously went to Drimmer, who grasped him roughly by the back of the shirt and forced him onto his knees. With the way the man held him, Shawn would have no chance at escaping unless he lost the shirt, which would leave him naked and afraid, which was far worse than being one or the other.

But it soon became apparent that the reason for Drimmer's insistence on the position was so that Shawn could be in plain sight, and so that he (the bad guy) would have the leverage to hold the gun easily to his head.

A shadow appeared in the hall before them, but ducked out of sight again quickly. Its owner could not help it, for the sun was nearly overhead then, and the heavens cared not for stealth tactics.

"Welcome to the show, Lassiter!" Drimmer boomed.

The shadow slowly reappeared, and to Shawn's relief he saw that it was Lassie, come to rescue him! He wondered if he'd brought Gus and Jules along, too.

"Let the boy go, Drimmer," Lassiter growled. The policeman was slowly edging down the slanted deck, his own pistol trained professionally at his former coworker.

"I'd be careful with that," was his cheery response. "Just one slip of the finger could have dire consequences for some people." Shawn shuddered as he felt the hard barrel of the gun pressed more forcefully into his skull. He leaned away from it, but Drimmer arrested the movement with a sharp jerk of the shirt, which drew Lassiter's glance downwards.

The man's gaze hardened even more, ears turning red. "You bastard, Drimmer."

Shawn knew that he had seen him sans culottes. He felt his own face heat up, but there wasn't anything he could do to cover himself up that wouldn't result in some form of rebuke from his captor. Shawn tried to blink back his tears, but his eyes betrayed him and a few slipped out. Once that happened the floodgates were opened once more, and Shawn couldn't help himself.

"Please let us go!" he cried pitifully. "We were leaving anyway, so no one will know anything! We'll never come back ever again, and we'll never tell—oww!" Shawn clutched his head as blinding pain lanced across his skull. Drimmer had struck him with the butt of the pistol. Shawn choked back his sobs and stayed as quiet and still as he could, trembling and white-faced.

Meanwhile, Lassiter had been compelled to set down his own gun and kick it away. It clattered noisily across the cabin. His fierce expression was not tempered by Drimmer's almost serene one. Ideas raced through his head, discarded as quickly as they came—nothing he could do would guarantee the safety of Shawn, who now had a thin stream of blood trickling along the side of his pale, bruised face. Lassiter had been sickened by Drimmer before for the fact that he could kill a man and frame a coworker, but now—kidnapping and assaulting a mere boy, only for his brief association with Lassiter? And the implications of the missing pants made his blood boil in his veins. Unforgiveable.

"I'm unarmed," Lassiter said. "You can do whatever you want with me, Drimmer. Just let the kid go. He can take the raft, and he'll never tell anybody what happened here, and never come back. He doesn't deserve this. He's just a kid."

Shawn, for his part, was too busy fighting the urge to vomit to pay any attention to the men standing above him. He scrubbed the ticklish blood from his jawline with his sleeve, eyes squeezed shut.

Drimmer only smiled eerily. "I'm sure those are the sorts of words the newspapers will print when they recreate the story."

Lassiter narrowed his eyes dangerously and clenched his fists at his sides.

Gradually, Shawn was regaining some measure of control over himself. His sense of hearing returned as the ringing dissipated. Drimmer was saying, "…had your way with him, killed him, then committed suicide. And poor Drimmer was too late to save him. He held the dying boy in his arms—"

Shawn scrambled to steady his feet beneath him as Drimmer hauled him up by the shirt, still holding one hand to his aching head. The barrel found its way to the fleshy underside of his chin, forcing Shawn to tip his head far back enough to stare up at Drimmer.

"Stop," Lassiter uttered, panic finally appearing in him.

Drimmer ignored him. "And his last words," he smiled. Shawn frantically tried to pull Drimmer's hand away. But his own shaking hands were slick with sweat and blood, and his efforts were to no avail.

"Don't shoot me," Shawn whimpered, writhing in Drimmer's too-tight hold. His heart hammered painfully in his chest. "Don't shoot me, don't shoot me!"

"Don't do it!" Lassiter yelled.

"His last words," Drimmer continued, "were 'don't shoot me.' Poor thing."

Shawn squeezed his eyes shut again. "Dad!" he screamed. It made perfect sense for him, at that intense moment, to call for his father—because when he needed him most, he always turned up: when he got lost in the woods; when a bully had locked him in the school outhouse after everyone had gone home; when Shawn had been awfully sick and his mother was away; when Shawn had fallen from a tree and hurt his leg; when he had nightmares after reading Polidori's The Vampyr. Shawn fully expected his father to come barreling down the deck, shotgun fully loaded.

His wish was answered—

In a way.

It was not his father who tackled Drimmer, but Lassiter who took the snowball's-chance-in-hell lunge at the man, wrestling for the weapon. It discharged somewhere over Shawn's head, the deafening CRACK of gunfire renewing the ringing in Shawn's ears. But the boy had enough sense to duck and get out of the way as the men fought over possession of the pistol, which went off once more in the struggle, leaving another bullet embedded in the ceiling.

Shawn took a moment to inventory himself: limbs, good; head, attached; pants, still gone; shirt, ripped, but fixable; Lassiter, losing.

Somehow Drimmer had gotten the upper hand—maybe it was the fact that he was bigger than Lassiter. In any case, the dark-haired hero had been pinned to the floor beneath Drimmer, who was still attempting to aim the gun properly enough to inflict a mortal injury. Neither were looking at Shawn, and since there was no one else around, it was up to the kid to help his friend.

He glanced around the destitute room, searching for some kind of makeshift projectile or a club—and spotted Lassiter's relinquished gun. It was on the other side of the room, past the struggle. Shawn shifted, preparing himself to make a run for it, but instantly went back into a cowering position as another bullet ricocheted off the floor not too far from him.

It would be easier to go through the door and escape. He was closer. And Lassiter did say that the raft was out there. He could go back to town and get help. Grown-ups were more suited to this kind of thing, anyway.

Shawn shook his head, and slid towards the far wall, the lowest part of the room. He could sneak behind the men if he was quick enough about it. The boy slinked by, narrowly dodging a flailing leg as Lassiter attempted to dislodge his adversary.

His fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the gun, but once he had it he was unsure of what to do. He could aim it at Drimmer, but with the way they were rolling around he didn't want to take the chance of hitting Lassiter. Confounded, Shawn sat back and watched for an opening.

It came when Lassiter, receiving an elbow to the cheek, was forced to turn his head. He saw Shawn, and, more importantly, his pistol. With renewed vigor, Lassiter grasped the object of their struggle and immobilized it as best he could, while at the same time stretching his hand out towards Shawn, who immediately understood.

He slid the weapon across the floor, and Lassiter caught it gracefully, fitting his trigger finger into position as he raised it. Drimmer reacted too late. Lassiter aimed and fired.

Drimmer fell with a groan.

Lassiter pushed himself up, casting his eyes about for a restraining mechanism.

Relief flooded Shawn.

It was over. But there was no time to celebrate, as a sudden commotion broke out above them. Several gun-wielding men burst into the room, leaning backwards slightly to battle the slanted floor.

"Freeze!" a mustachioed man yelled, aiming.

Lassiter obeyed, still kneeling on the now unconscious Drimmer's kidney. He dropped the pistol as ordered and raised his hands.

"You don't understand," he said calmly, though Shawn could see the muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Don't move!" the policeman said, edging cautiously forward. Two men flanked him, though they were not law enforcement, but merely volunteers from town. "I don't want to have to hurt you, Lassiter."

"Drimmer is the murderer," Lassiter said. He shifted, eliciting a quiet moan from the prostrate, bleeding man beneath him.

"I said don't move!" The officer's trigger finger twitched nervously.

Shawn put himself between Lassiter and the newcomers. He turned his back to them and wrapped his arms around Lassiter's broad shoulders, ignoring his hissed, "Move back, kid." He could feel the man's heart pounding furiously. Lassiter was scared.

"Lassie saved me!" Shawn announced. "You're dumb if you think Lassie shot Chay-veez. He only shot Dinner, but that was because Dinner was trying to shoot me." Shawn prodded said assailant with his knee. "You can ask Gus and Jules, if you don't believe me!"

The policeman and his lackeys exchanged a glance, then slowly lowered their weapons. "Gus and Jules?" repeated the head honcho. "You're talking about that young lady and the slave who came running into town?"

Shawn nodded vigorously, then grimaced as a dizzying pain spell lanced through his skull. He put a hand back onto the still-trickling wound. Lassiter winced sympathetically, but remained in his position of surrender in case the apprehenders decided he were still dangerous.

But the policeman seemed satisfied. He ordered his followers to arrest Drimmer, and apologized profusely to Lassiter, who shrugged it off. Shawn went in search of his trousers while the men pretended not to see, though the lanky former-outlaw's brow was pinched with troubled thoughts. Once everything was settled in the cabin, they clambered noisily back up to the deck, Drimmer being dragged half-unconscious at the rear of the party. Shawn shouldered past the group and ran ahead into the sunlight, the dappled reflections of it on the river surface dazzling him and piercing painfully into his skull. But he ignored the pain in favor of taking a deep breath of fresh air, reveling at being alive.

"…aaaawwwwwnnnn…!" a voice echoed.

Shawn jumped up onto the rusted railing of the boat and shaded his face so he could look out across the water. He spotted two figures jumping on the far bank, waving their arms. He grinned. "Guuuuuuusss! Juuuuuulesss!"

"…aaaawwwwnnn…!"

He leaned back, craning his neck to look back at Lassiter, who was just emerging from the cabin after having gone back for his pistol. "Lassie! Look, Gus and Jules came to rescue us!" Shawn pointed.

Lassiter squinted in that direction and spotted them. He awkwardly raised a hand in acknowledgment when they yelled his name, too. "Well," he cleared his throat. "I'm ready to get off this damned boat if you are, kid."

Shawn stepped down from the railing. "You know that's right," he replied solemnly.

"I'm glad Carlton got his job back," Juliet said, patting her bonnet to check for stray hairs. Gus and Shawn were on either side of her, leaning precariously over the railing of the steamboat to watch the water churning against the sleek metal sides. She continued, as though speaking to herself, "I think it was very nice of him to pay our way onto here."

"Well," Gus said, "it is the least he could do after almost getting Shawn killed. And losing our raft."

Shawn touched the gauze wound tightly around his head. The bleeding had stopped hours ago, but the pressure felt nice—kept the headache at bay. He was still sore about the loss of the raft, too. Lassiter had neglected to anchor the craft strongly enough, so it had floated away. Luckily, the policeman took them across in his canoe and then went back for Drimmer.

"As I remember it," Juliet said primly, "it was Declan's raft."

"As I remember it," Shawn piped up finally, "Declan was going to sell Gus down the river—literally!"

She blushed. "He changed his mind…"

"After I beat him up!"

"You beat up Declan?" Gus asked. "Shawn, you know how your parents feel—uh," he glanced at Juliet, who frowned in confusion, "uh, you know how your parents felt about fighting," he finished.

Juliet's expression smoothed over with understanding. She wisely decided not to comment, and looked out at the scenery. The boys shared a relieved glance behind her back. They had both nearly forgotten that Shawn had told her his parents were dead.

"There you are," said a gruff voice behind them.

The children turned to find Lassiter standing behind them, carrying a bag. Gus sniffed the air and swallowed as his salivation glands kicked into gear, so Shawn knew whatever was in the sack was definitely delicious.

"Gus," Shawn whispered. "I think Lassie's rich."

"Me, too," Gus agreed. "How can he afford so much stuff? Boat tickets, food, new clothes, a vacation…"

"My dad never took us on vacation!"

"You know that's right."

Meanwhile, Lassiter and Juliet had come to the agreement that they would take their lunch on the deck. It was a very nice day for a ride, and the policeman was glad to be able to take some time to relax after the ordeal—though his official reason for the short leave was to watch over Shawn, Gus, and Juliet. If anyone needed adult supervision, it was the boys. Besides, Lassiter had been thinking of going up to the Free States, anyway.

(Shawn was sure his reasons had more to do with them being best friends now. And also because Lassiter owes them his life, but semantics.)

"Ooh, pie!" Shawn gasped, launching himself forward as Juliet began to unpack the bag.

Lassiter rolled his eyes as the sheriff's son dug a spoon into the pastry. "Why don't you eat a sandwich first?" he said, sliding the tin out of reach.

Shawn pouted. "But…but the pie, Lassie! Gus, tell him that—Gus, come over here!"

Gus, who had remained standing back from the table, edged forward, hands clasped behind his back.

"Gus, tell Lassie that if we don't eat the pie while it's piping hot, it's just not pie anymore. Pie stands for piping-hot-not icy-cold eaty-thing."

The slave gave him a dubious look. "No, it doesn't, Shawn."

"Whose side are you on?" Shawn scowled. "Besides, I have a big bump on my head, so I think I deserve some pie."

He turned back to Lassiter, but the vacationing sheriff only pushed a half of cold turkey sandwich into the boy's hand. "Lunch first, and then dessert," he said firmly. Lassiter held the other half out to Gus, who looked surprised at the gesture. The sheriff looked marginally surprised himself, then his usual annoyance crossed his face. "Well, come sit down. Don't hover like a vulture."

Gus, who disliked vultures on principle, immediately stepped forward and sat down beside Shawn. He accepted the sandwich and stared at the table uncomfortably as he ate. Shawn had by that time already wolfed down his half, and was looking hungrily at Gus'. Lassiter and Juliet also shared a sandwich, and were having a discussion about how the weather affected a fired musket round, of all things. Her growing up in a household full of boys meant she learned those things by association, Shawn guessed.

He waited impatiently for his companions to finish their meals, but they were taking their sweet time with it. And the pie was getting cold. With a sigh, Shawn ambled back to the railing to watch the churning water again. There was nothing else to do, really. When they had the raft, at least Shawn could swim alongside to cool off.

Shawn started as the horn blared, and leaned out to see what was happening. A skiff glided out of the way of the steamboat, the driver waving at the passengers as they passed. The boy shuddered to remember the night of the accident, when he and Gus had both nearly died. He glanced up towards the cabin, and saw the dark silhouette of the captain through the window.

Maybe

Shooting a discreet glance back towards the group, who were still immersed in their table talk, Shawn inched towards the metal steps that led up to the pilothouse. Gus looked around for him, and nearly became alarmed. Shawn quickly got his attention and motioned him over. Warily, Gus came, using his stealthy "jackal switch" maneuver. He licked the last crumbs of sandwich from his fingertips, giving his friend a questioning expression.

Shawn grinned. He snuck up the steps, ignoring Gus' whisper-screams behind him to come back. As he had already determined would happen, Gus reluctantly followed.

Two pairs of eyes slowly appeared over the lower sill of the pilothouse window, peering into the cramped quarters. A uniformed man was standing at the helm, keeping the vessel straight down the middle of the river. He occasionally checked the numerous dials and needles on the dash, but otherwise was largely preoccupied with reading a letter. Squinting, Shawn was better able to make out that it was written in expert cursive, which he was unable to read from his distance.

"What are we doing here, Shawn?" Gus whispered.

"He might let us drive the boat."

"Make no mistake, Shawn. He won't let a kid drive the boat."

"You can't possibly know that, Gus."

"It's common sense, Shawn!"

"Gus, don't be the one itchy spot on my back I can't reach…Will you scratch my back?"

"Shawn, we're not gonna drive the boat."

"Wait, look," Shawn said, attention diverted back to the captain, who was stepping out. "He's leaving."

"But who's gonna drive the boat?! You're just a kid, Shawn."

But Shawn was already moving, slipping around the corner to the door on the other side. A quick glance in either direction proved that they were alone, and that the steamboat had been left to its own devices. It was a good thing Shawn was there, otherwise something bad could happen—an iceberg could come out of nowhere! The risk of that was just too great to ignore.

"Shawn!" Gus stomped his foot, huddling just outside the threshold.

The sheriff's son was at the wheel, standing on tiptoes to see through the front window. "Relax, Gus. I know what I'm doing."

"Uh, last time I checked, you've never even been on a steamboat before this week."

"How hard could it be?" Shawn shrugged. "All we have to do is keep it straight down the middle." He grasped the wheel and held it straight. "See?"

Gus glared at him, then looked over his shoulder, shifting nervously. "The captain might be back any minute."

"Good. Someone ought to tell him that he shouldn't leave big ships unpretended."

"You mean unattended."

"I've heard it both ways."

"No, you haven't, Shawn."

Shawn turned to argue semantics, inadvertently shifting the wheel as he did so. Neither of the boys noticed. Their bickering voices overlapped, each of them growing in volume as they attempted to make the other hear him.

"What in heavens," drawled a man, suddenly appearing in the doorway.

Gus squeaked and stumbled inside to stand behind Shawn, who had snapped to attention at the wheel and pretended innocence.

The captain stared at them, one eyebrow cocked. But he did not look angry—rather bemused.

"Aye, aye, Cap'n!" Shawn shouted, pressing a finger in salute against the bandages wrapped around his head.

"I did not give you an order," the captain said in his English accent, "yet. Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"You don't remember telling me to take over for you?" Shawn asked, feigning surprise.

"I have absolutely no idea who you are." He had a vaguely amused expression.

"I'm Shawn, and this is my partner, Nick Nack. Who're you?"

"Despereaux," he responded. "Pierre Despereaux. Captain Pierre Despereaux."

"Is that a French name?"

"Oui."

"We who?"

"No, oui is French for yes."
"That doesn't make any sense."

"Oh, but it does, Shawn." He squinted out of the window and frowned. "Did you move the wheel?"

"Nope."

"Did Nick Nack move the wheel?"

Gus frantically shook his head, eyes wide.

"Nope," Shawn popped his lips. "But even if we did, you have no way of knowing because you abandoned ship!"

"I stepped out to give orders to the crew. I was gone for less than two minutes."

"Tell it to the judge!"

"Where are your parents?"

"That's not a very nice question," Shawn answered. "What if my parents are dead?"

"Are they?"

"Yup."

"Hmm. My condolences. Well, you must be here with someone."

"Of course."

Captain Despereaux paused, apparently waiting to hear the name of Shawn's guardian. But the child was not forthcoming, too intent on watching the river. Despereaux glanced out of the window as well, his frown deepening.

"Stand aside, Shawn. I will take the wheel now."

"I've got it handled."

Gus hissed in Shawn's ear, but he waved him off.

"Now, Shawn," Despereaux cajoled.

"Don't worry, Captain. I'm a master at this."

With a sigh, Despereaux came forward and made an attempt to forcibly remove Shawn. But the kid clung determinedly to the implement, loudly insisting that he was a qualified steamboat navigator.

"I'll fight you!" Shawn threatened.

"You pose absolutely no threat to me whatsoever," Despereaux grunted, at last tearing Shawn away and setting him aside. He swept his blond hair back as he straightened. "Now then." He faced forward and placed his hands on the wheel—

Just in time to be slammed into as the steamboat came to a crashing halt against the shallows.

Alarmed shouts erupted outside as Despereaux calmly reached over and shut off the boiler.

"See," Shawn muttered, pushing himself up from the floor and dusting his shirt off. "This is why I should drive."

"I can't believe you got us kicked off the boat, Shawn." Gus scowled.

"Me?" Shawn gaped. "The boat was totally fine! Just a few scratches. Nothing a little whitewash won't fix."

"I said, no talking!" Lassiter snapped, adjusting the bag on his shoulder.

The group continued walking along the riverbank in silence. The next town wasn't too far, and hopefully news of Shawn's near-disastrous escapade hadn't spread already.

Getting to the Free States was taking a lot longer than Shawn had anticipated.

A/N: SO SORRY that it took so long to get this out. College really took a lot out of me. But now I'm out for the summer, so the last update should come a lot quicker. Yes, there will be one more because the story is turning out a lot longer than anticipated.