Noah Mine's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Morning came gray over the water. Noah had his logbook back, but the nun's debt note had paid his way. Two dollars still sat uncollected across the river. Until the debtor paid, his dock fund stayed short by that much. He folded the note into his coat and waited at the lantern-lit posts for the man to board. For three crossings the debtor did not come. Noah knew his face. The man worked the far bank and crossed most nights. But now he timed his trips to miss the ferry. Twice Noah saw him wait in the reeds until the boat pulled off, then slip down to the water alone in a borrowed skiff. The man was dodging him on purpose. On the fourth night, Noah stopped waiting. He tied the ferry early and walked the planks to the little dock office. A rumpled man stood inside, shaking a wet notepad over the stove. Coffee had soaked the pages brown. Noah had seen him around town, knocking things over and asking questions. The inspector looked up and grinned. "You're the ferryman," the inspector said. "The one who keeps a logbook." He tapped his stained notepad. "I keep one too. Mine just drinks more coffee." "I'm looking for a man who owes me," Noah said. "Crosses in a borrowed skiff. Won't face me." The inspector flipped a soaked page and squinted. "Skiff. Far bank. I wrote him down myself. He's been ferrying his own cargo at night to skip your fare. Cheaper than paying you." He pointed with a dripping pen. "He'll be at the far landing tonight. Loading late." Noah crossed alone in the dark. He found the man bent over the skiff, stacking crates by lantern. The man froze when the ferry bumped the pilings. "I've got your mark," Noah said. He held up the note. "Clara Voss took your confession. You owe two dollars for a month of crossings. Pay it, or the clerk credits it against your name in the record." The man looked at the crates, then at Noah. He knew the clerk's filed debt would follow him worse than cash. He dug in his pocket and counted out two dollars in coin. His hand shook when he passed it over. "That's all of it," the man said. "Now we're square." Noah weighed the coins in his palm. Real money, at last. He tore the note in half and let the pieces fall in the skiff. "Square," he said. He ferried back across the water and laid the two dollars with his fund by lantern light. The sum was whole again. But the man had crossed all month for free, and others had watched him do it. If one debtor could skip the fare and nearly walk away, more would try. Noah's open hand had cost him again. Come next week, he'd have to decide who still rode free.