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Louis” to disparage his ability and call into question his sanity. He concluded with “When Lewis says, ‘Come on Joe,’ just tell him no, no—you don’t want to go. Oh, oh, oh, oh …”
    Billy Bob laughed at this. “Perty good. Perty good. They were both perty good.”
    “Who won?” Lewis demanded.
    “I’d have to call it a tie, I thank. They was both good.”
    “‘Nother round,” Lewis said.
    He was clearing his throat when Ray waved him off. “You win. I’ll take Fred.” Suddenly the idea of having a disembodied skull onboard his kayak wasn’t as bad as listening to Lewis’s strained, whining voice hail him with ridicule.
    Lewis celebrated the victory with a pantomime of a sky walk, climaxed by a dunk on an invisible goal. “Fletcher monster dunk at da buzzer!”
    “Can we go now?” Ray wondered.
    “Sure,” Lewis answered cockily. “Just don’t forget Fred.” He cackled his way over to his pack and began stuffing gear inside.
    Ray retrieved the clothes and sleeping bag. The gortex parkas were dry, the rest still getting there. He decided that they could complete the airing-out process when they stopped to make camp that evening. After stuffing the apparel into Billy Bob’s pack, he placed the heavy cotton bundle in the stern, packing the hole with the nylon mummy bag, in hopes of keeping old Fred from making any unscheduled appearances.
    “I ain’t positive I’m up to this,” Billy Bob conceded. He had already loaded his pack and was standing two feet from the water, eyeing his craft suspiciously.
    “You’ll be fine,” Ray assured, wondering how in the world the cowboy would navigate a swift river when he couldn’t handle a calm, glassy lake. “Tell you what …” He scanned the driftwood strewn about the beach. “No … These won’t work. Lewis, I need a couple of tent poles. And some rope.”
    “What for?”
    “To lash our boats together—sort of an outrigger setup. It’ll be more stable.”
    “Stable? Eh … But a real dog to turn. Bet you hit da first rock we meet.” He bent to dig his pack out of the kayak. A minute later, he threw Ray two aluminum shafts and a ball of yellow climbing rope. Together he and Billy Bob jury-rigged the boats, binding them together.
    “That’ll keep us from butting together all the time,” Ray explained. He took hold of the poles and tested the arrangement with a firm shake. “Pretty solid. Should last through most of what we’re heading into. We can always make repairs.”
    “Not to da head,” Lewis teased, patting his scalp.” ‘Specially not Fred da Head.”
    “Ignore him,” Ray said. After Billy Bob was aboard, he pushed their double-hulled craft away from the shore and climbed in.
    “Now we start next leg of da trip, floating da Kanayut,” Lewis informed, playing the guide again. “Ready, Mista Attla?”
    “Ready,” Ray sighed.
    “Ready, Mista Cleava?”
    “Naw. Not really,” Billy Bob replied, swallowing hard.
    “Ready, Mista Fred da Head?” Lewis answered his own question in a deep voice. “You betcha. ‘Cept I can’t see from in here.”
    Lewis’s choppy, high-pitched chortle resounded over the water, hit the far shore, and came back. Billy Bob found this hilarious as well, adding his twanging laugh to the mix.
    Ray had to admit, it was funny. The whole thing was humorous in a pathetic sort of way: Billy Bob’s motion sickness, the cowboy’s inability to stay afloat, almost drowning, losing Ray’s pack, being forced to wear skintight pants and a muscle shirt, snagging a skull with a spinner, even the song duel … The three of them would never forget this trip. Just hours old, it had already been
memorable.
    Hopefully, the remainder of their time in the Bush would be less eventful.

NINE
    Q UNNIKUN, QUNNIKUN—GIVE US smooth water.
That had been Lewis’s prayer as they left the lake. The petition had fallen on deaf, disinterested ears, Ray decided as he eyed the Kanayut. The river was high, manic, licking