Moses was still nestled in the bottom of the boat on an old blanket and sleeping peacefully.  Clayton chuckled under his breath as he watched his partner’s eyes dart rapidly under his eyelids.  Occasionally, he would snort or groan to himself.  Clay wondered what a Leopard Cur might dream of on such a night.  He admired his partner in crime as he slept. Moses was, without a doubt, his best friend.

Moses was large for his breed, weighing nearly 110 pounds.  He had marbled, blue eyes and a short, slick coat that would dry in a matter of minutes after a swim.  His coat was blue with brown markings, with splashes of black around his eyes.  He was descended from the Wright line of curs, an old lineage that traced their roots to Hernando De Soto’s working dogs.  Many of the old breeders claimed the dogs had originally descended from red wolves.  Regardless of where he came from, Clayton knew Moses was as faithful a friend as could be desired.

Clay began to hear the faint sound of an engine as it rumbled through the deep swamp.  He waited anxiously as the sound grew louder.  Suddenly, the low rumble stopped. He heard two doors slam shut in unison.  Through the thick cover of foliage and Spanish moss, he watched the family of furry bandits slip away into the night.  Two figures warily made their way down the steep bank and towards the small pier.

The pier was often inundated by floodwaters and had developed a thin, slimy film of mildew over the years.  Clayton knew the floodwaters had left it even more perilous than normal.  He grinned in anticipation as he watched the men.

The rotund man in the lead gingerly plodded out onto one step at a time.  Suddenly, his left foot began to slide awkwardly away from him, like a child trying to ice skate.  The man thrust his arms out in a vain attempt to balance himself, but it was too late.  Clayton could see the panic on the man’s face.  Then, his right foot started to move as well.  He turned his head back to the direction of the bank, as if by seeing it he might somehow conjure himself back onto safer footing.  All at once, both feet swung straight out, then up.   The man landed so hard on the pier Clayton was afraid the entire structure would collapse into the water.

The loud crash aroused Moses from his deep slumber.  He growled in a low tone in the direction of the ruckus.  Clayton clenched his teeth to keep from exploding in laughter as he rubbed the back of Moses’ neck.  The two men were now waving their arms at each other and attempting to argue in hushed tones.  The second man eased out onto the pier and struggled to lift the other back onto his feet.  Once they were both precariously standing again, the portly man retrieved an infrared flashlight from his pocket and flashed it in Clay’s general direction.

Clayton crawled to the front of the boat and twisted the hand throttle of the trolling motor.  The boat silently began to push through the thick cover and into the open waters of the slough.  As silent as a wraith, he drifted towards them.  When he was about thirty feet from the pair, he removed his helmet and lit a kerosene lantern that had been resting on the bow of the boat.

The portly man called out to the boat, “How are you, old friend?”

“Better than you are, Teddy.  I doubt you’ll be able to get out of bed for a week.”

Deputy Greene chuckled as Ted Lawson replied, “I had hoped you hadn’t seen that.”

“Moses and I see everything.”

“Give Teddy a break, Clayton, that’s the most exercise he’s had all month.”

“Enough, the both of you, or next time I’ll make sure one of you breaks my fall.”

Clay chuckled. “Careful now Teddy, I wouldn’t want to see Deputy Greene arrest you for manslaughter.”

As he pulled alongside the bank, Clayton and the deputy laughed and continued the friendly banter, at Teddy’s expense. Lawson smiled and laughed good-naturedly along with them.

The pair disappeared over the bank and returned with several 5-gallon jugs.  One by one, they handed them to Clay.  The boat squatted lower in the water with each additional jug.  A whiskey run was always perilous because the vessel’s ability to maneuver was greatly impeded.  Clayton would have to trust that the moonless sky and his night-vision would be enough to keep him safe.  They would also need to stop more often to make sure they were not being followed.

After they finished loading the boat, the conversation turned to more serious topics.  They scheduled the date for the next transport and discussed what it would entail.  After the terms were agreed to, Teddy disappeared up the hill for a moment and returned with a long, wooden box.  Clayton grinned as he opened the box and gazed at the rifle.

He exclaimed, “Those four deliveries were definitely worth it.”

“I’d say.  With this monster, you’re a force to be reckoned with on the water.”

“Yep, but I hope I never have to use it.”

“Peace through superior firepower, right Clay?”

Clayton grinned, “That’s the idea.  I just hope Moses doesn’t bail off the boat if I ever use it.”

They all laughed as the cur rolled his head to the side and stared at the rifle in confusion.

“Here,” Clayton said, “help me mount it to the brackets on the dry well.”

After they mounted the rifle in front of Clayton’s seat, they shook hands and exchanged goodbyes.  Clay checked his watch; he would have to hurry to make it across in time.  He would have to wait until later to try out the gun.

He gave the men a final wave and pushed off from the pier.  He extinguished the old lantern and pulled his helmet back over his head.  Together, he and Moses silently trolled back across the slough.

After he was back in the cover of the thick brush, he waited impatiently for the sound of the truck cranking. Clay and Moses listened as Greene and Lawson bounced along the rough trail, eventually fading into the background noise of the swamp.  Once he was satisfied that the bootleggers were safely on their way, Clay cranked his motor and idled off into the night.

***

Clay couldn’t help but admire the bolt-action rifle that was now mounted in the center of his boat.  He had never felt inadequately armed with the M1 Garand that rested at his side, but having the fifty caliber gave him a completely different feeling while on the water.  With the shallow-water capabilities of the boat, the night vision gear and now the large bore rifle, he felt indomitable.  The fifty reduced nearly all cover on the river to merely decent concealment.

They were much more careful than normal on the trip to the opposite side of the river.  The typically-nimble craft felt sluggish with the heavy load of whiskey. Clayton had to plan his maneuvers well ahead of time to ensure he could navigate the meanderings of the rivers’ cutoff.  He would yank the motor’s tiller hard as they approached a curve, and then drift sideways as they skipped across their own wake.

Nights such as these always drove Moses wild.  He would pounce about the boat, searching for somewhere he would not slide about.  As soon as the cur felt satisfied with his new perch, they would begin to drift in the opposite direction as they navigated another bend.

They burst out from underneath the dense, tunnel-like canopy of the cutoff and onto the open water at full throttle.  Clayton considered the final leg of the journey the most dangerous.  The banks’ bluffs were higher and there were fewer side sloughs and bayous to escape into.  Of course, now he had the fifty.  Moses shrank into the bottom of the boat as they blew past Wolf Gut, Silver Lake and countless other backwater lakes and tributaries.

He scanned the high bluffs on either side, searching for any signs of trouble.  He noted the numerous oil rigs that were barely visible from his low vantage point.  He watched as the rigs’ traveling blocks moved through the varying stages of their up and down cycle.  He reasoned it was a small positive; at least the oil wells were still pumping.