At High Net, Tavin could see the old road for six paces before it disappeared under water.
A driver had planted a red pole at the last dry edge. Beyond it, the flood moved smoothly across the place where ruts should have been. Smooth water made a better liar than white water. It showed nothing of the ditch, the fallen bank or the stone hidden low enough to break a wheel before anyone saw it.
Nella Crouse stood beside the pole with both hands in her coat pockets.
“Yesterday it was twelve paces,” she said.
“Then we don’t spend the other six finding out.”
“Good. My teams are tired of heroic roads.”
They walked back to the loaded wagons.
Thirty-four days out from Stonewake. They had made nearly all the old journey, then the flood had turned its last stretch into a question nobody could answer by pointing at the distance already traveled.
