r a long time he imagined there was among
them an infinitely low voice, as if from a great distance. He imagined
this; he doubted; he made sure; and then all seemed fancy again. His
mind held only one idea and was riveted round it. He strained his
hearing, so long, so intently, that at last he knew he had heard what
he was longing for. Then in the gloom he took to the trail, and
returned home as he had left, stealthily, like an Indian.

But Bostil did not sleep nor rest.

Next morning early he rode down to the river. Somers and Shugrue had
finished the boat and were waiting. Other men were there, curious and
eager. Joel Creech, barefooted and ragged, with hollow eyes and strange
actions, paced the sands.

The boat was lying bottom up. Bostil examined the new planking and the
seams. Then he straightened his form.

"Turn her over," he ordered. "Shove her in. An' let her soak up to-day."

The men seemed glad and relieved. Joel Creech heard and he came near to
Bostil.

"You'll--you'll fetch Dad's hosses over?" he queried.

"Sure. To-morrow," replied Bostil, cheerily.

Joel smiled, and that smile showed what might have been possible for
him under kinder conditions of life. "Now, Bostil, I'm sorry fer what I
said," blurted Joel.

"Shut up. Go tell your old man."

Joel ran down to his skiff and, leaping in, began to row vigorously
across. Bostil watched while the workmen turned the boat over and slid
it off the sand-bar and tied it securely to the mooring. Bostil
observed that not a man there saw anything unusual about the river.
But, for that matter, there was nothing to see. The river was the same.

That night when all was quiet in and around the village Bostil emerged
from his house and took to his stealthy stalk down toward the river.

The moment he got out into the night oppression left him. How
interminable the hours had been! Suspense, doubt, anxiety, fear no
longer burdened him. The night was dark, with only a few stars, and the
air was cool. A soft wind blew across his heated face. A neighbor's
dog, baying dismally, startled Bostil. He halted to listen, then stole
on under the cottonwoods, through the sage, down the trail, into the
jet-black canyon. Yet he found his way as if it had been light. In the
darkness of his room he had been a slave to his indecision; now in the
darkness of the looming cliffs he was free, resolved, immutable.

The distance seemed short. He passed out of the narrow canyon, skirt