“We had some farm dogs that would wolf down any garbage you left around, and then heave it back up if it disagreed with ’em, which it generally did. Usually someplace where you were going to step, seemed like.” She scowled in memory. “Then there was that dog of Reed’s whose joy was to roll in smelly things—manure, dead possums—and then rush up to share his bliss with you. But that’s dogs for you.”

Dag pressed the back of his hand to his lips. “Indeed…Are you ragging me, Spark?”

She shook her head, though her fierce glance said, You deserve to be ragged. “Then there’s horses. Now, horses can’t vomit like dogs do. Once they’ve eaten something wrong, they’re in big trouble and no mistake. Papa lost a good pony to colic, once, that had got into the corn, which is why Fletcher is so careful about fixing fencerows and keeping the feed bins latched tight. It’d been his pony, see. So if you ground-rip something bad, can you get rid of it or not?”

“Evidently not.” Dag’s brow wrinkled. “I couldn’t get rid of those toxic spatters after I ground-ripped the malice back in Raintree, either, come to think. They were blighting me, poisoning my ground. They were drawn out and destroyed with the rest of the residue when we broke the malice’s groundlock, but that trick wouldn’t work for this.”

“Will this kill you?” she asked in sudden terror. “Just a piece of pie—my pie?”

He shook his head. “Don’t think so. It’s not poison. And I didn’t—couldn’t—rip it all the way. But I sure wish I hadn’t done that.” He hunched tighter, grimacing.

“Then will you get better slow like after the mosquito?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” he sighed.

“Ground-colic,” said Fawn. “Eew.”

She took away the plate and basin and emptied them over the back rail, then returned to put Dag firmly to bed. It was a measure of his malaise that he went without argument.

She made his excuses to the others, come lunch—he thinks it’s something he ate—which were accepted without question but with lots of speculation as to what it might have been, since everyone else had eaten Fawn’s boat-food as well. In desperation—and in defense of her reputation as a cook—she finally suggested it might have been something he’d got hold of up in town that morning, which was allowed with wise nods. Remo seemed the most disturbed by the development, stopping by their bed-nook to ask Dag if he was all right and if there was anything he could do. Dag’s response was muffled and repelling. Fawn thought that Dag should take the only other Lakewalker available into his confidence about these alarming ground-ripping experiments, but wasn’t certain enough to force it. She was out of her depth, here. The notion that Dag might be too was not reassuring.

Dag’s loss was Hod’s gain, as he was suddenly promoted to sweep-man that afternoon in Dag’s place. Hod was clumsy and timid and mixed up his right and his left, but responded slowly both to Berry’s patience and Bo’s familiar hungover bluntness. His panicked mistakes became fewer as his confidence grew, though he seemed so surprised to be told he was doing well that he almost dropped his broad-oar overboard.

To Fawn’s immense relief, Dag revived enough in the evening to eat real food, although she noticed he left his arm harness off. He was still very quiet, answering most queries with a headshake and then pressing his forehead as if in regret of the sudden motion. But the next day Dag went back to taking turns on the oars, although only after a promise to the eager Hod that he would now be added to the regular rotation.

They pulled in that noon at a village that was seemingly a traditional stop for the Clearcreeks, where Berry found a fellow who both knew her and remembered the Briar Rose stopping last fall. So her papa had made it at least this far. The goods-shed man couldn’t recall Boss Clearcreek saying anything unusual about the trip, was very sorry to learn of his disappearance, and shook his head over the news about the lost Tripoint boats. Whit sold his first batch of window glass, and they took to the river once more. The cool autumn sun that made the water sparkle and the riverbanks glow delighted Fawn, but was not welcomed by Berry, eyeing the falling water.

Late that afternoon Berry’s glumness was unfortunately vindicated. The boat boss was sitting with Fawn, Dag, and Hod at the kitchen table, nibbling leftovers and asking about life in West Blue, when a grinding noise from the hull made her look up and set her teeth. She stared at the ceiling, thumping with sudden bootsteps, and muttered, “Bo, you’re too close to the bank, bring her over hard now—” but broke off with an aggravated snarl as the Fetch quite perceptibly ground to a halt.

“What is it?” asked Fawn sharply; Hod looked equally alarmed.

“Sand bar,” Berry called over her shoulder as she swung out the back hatch. They all followed her out and clambered up onto the roof, where she was peering over the side with her hands planted on her hips and saying to Bo, “What did you want to go and do that for? We’re scrunched in good now!”

Bo was apologetic, in a guilty-surly sort of way, blaming the island they were stuck beside for growing that bar out in an uncalled-for way. Whit was rather red-faced, and Remo, catching Dag’s eye, looked hangdog. Berry sighed in exasperation, which reassured Fawn that this was a normal sort of emergency, and Berry and Bo took up a practiced routine for efforts to push them off again.

The first step was to swing the oars down and use them as stilts to walk the boat off the bar. Dag and Remo actually broke their big oar with their grunting effort, but the Fetch did not budge, and Berry abandoned that method before they either broke another—she was not oversupplied with spares—or ripped out the massive oak oarlock as well. The next step was to send all the men ashore, lightening the load, to try tugging with ropes. Copperhead, whom Berry kept calling Dag’s land-skiff, was sent too, with a rope tied to his saddle. The men stripped to their drawers and boots and waded into the chill water, grimly or with yelps, which was pretty riveting—Fawn caught Berry staring too, and her wide grin flashed back—but still didn’t shift the boat.

The third method was to settle back and wait for a rise to float the Fetch off the bar, a choice the shivering crew had scorned a couple of hours back but now applauded. As they were yelling this debate across the little stretch of water between the boat and the churned-up bank, a long, low hoot, rising to three sharp toots, sounded from upriver. “That’s the Snapping Turtle’s horn,” Berry said, her head swiveling.

The keelboat appeared around the bend, riding easily down the center of the channel. A man in—dry—red-and-blue striped trousers cheerfully waved a tin horn as long as his arm at the mud-splashed crew of the Fetch strung along the shore. “That there’s a boat, not a plow, Boss Berry!” he called. “You tryin’ to dredge a new channel over there?” Berry snorted indignation, but her lips twitched.

As Boss Wain strode to the bow and stood with his thumbs in his green leather braces, grinning at them, Berry cupped her hands and shouted, “Hey, Wain! You’ve got muscle over there! How’s about a tow?”

He cupped his hands and yelled back, “I dunno, Berry—how’s about a kiss?”

Over on the bank, Whit, despite being mostly blue, flushed red.

“Daisy-goat’ll pucker up for you!” Berry shouted back. “You’ll think you’re back with the home girls!”

Wain shook his head. “Not good enough! What’s your cargo?”

“Mainly salt butter, Tripoint tools, and window glass!”

Wain’s grin stretched as the Snapping Turtle slid past. “Then I guess we’ll sell our tools and glass downstream before you!” He patted his lips in a broad gesture. “Unless you want to change your mind about that kiss?”

“Muscle-headed turkey-wit,” Berry muttered under her breath. “He never changes.” She raised her voice and shouted after him, “What, are all your fellers too weak and worn out with flipping those dice to pull a bitty flatboat anymore? All little girly-arms on the Turtle, so sad!” She flapped hers limply in mockery.