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on the slopes。 It was the voice of all that widely separated water spilled
suddenly with magical power into the desert river to make it a mighty；
thundering torrent； red and defiled； terrible in its increasing onslaught into
the canyon； deep； ponderous； but swift the Colorado in flood。
And as Bostil heard that voice he trembled。 What was the thing he meant to do？
A thousand thoughts assailed him in answer and none were clear。 A chill passed
over him。 Suddenly he felt that the cold stole up from his feet。 They were
both in the water。 He pulled them out and； bending down； watched the dim； dark
line of water。 It moved up and up； inch by inch； swiftly。 The river was on the
rise！
Bostil leaped up。 He seemed possessed of devils。 A rippling hot gash of blood
fired his every vein and tremor after tremor shook him。
〃By G…d！ I had it rightshe's risin'！〃 he exclaimed； hoarsely。
He stared in fascinated certainty at the river。 All about it and pertaining to
it had changed。 The murmur and moan changed to a low； sullen roar。 The music
was gone。 The current chafed at its rock…bound confines。 Here was an uneasy；
tormented； driven river！ The light from the stars shone on dark； glancing；
restless waters； uneven and strange。 And while Bostil watched； whether it was
a short time or long； the remorseless； destructive nature of the river showed
itself。
Bostil began to pace the sands。 He thought of those beautiful race…horses
across the river。
〃It's not too late！〃 he muttered。 〃I can get the boat over an' backyet！〃
He knew that on the morrow the Colorado in flood would bar those horses；
imprison them in a barren canyon； shut them in to starve。
〃It'd be hellish！ 。 。 。 Bostil； you can't do it。 You ain't thet kind of a man
。 。 。 。 Bostil poison a water…hole where hosses loved to drink； or burn over
grass！ 。 。 。 What would Lucy think of you？ 。 。 。 No； Bostil； you've let spite
rule bad。 Hurry now and save them hosses！〃
He strode down to the boat。 It swung clear now； and there was water between it
and the shore。 Bostil laid hold of the cables。 As he did so he thought of
Creech and a blackness enfolded him。 He forgot Creech's horses。 Something
gripped him； burned himsome hard and bitter feeling which he thought was
hate of Creech。 Again the wave of fire ran over him； and his huge hands
strained on the cables。 The fiend of that fiendish river had entered his soul。
He meant ruin to a man。 He meant more than ruin。 He meant to destroy what his
enemy； his rival loved。 The darkness all about him； the gloom and sinister
shadow of the canyon； the sullen increasing roar of the' riverthese lent
their influence to the deed； encouraged him； drove him onward； fought and
strangled the resistance in his heart。 As he brooded all the motives for the
deed grew like that remorseless river。 Had not his enemy's son shot at him
from ambush？ Was not his very life at stake？ A terrible blow must be dealt
Creech； one that would crush him or else lend him manhood enough to come forth
with a gun。 Bostil； in his torment； divined that Creech would know who had
ruined him。 They would meet then； as Bostil had tried more than once to bring
about a meeting。 Bostil saw into his soul； and it was a gulf like this canyon
pit where the dark and sullen river raged。 He shrank at what he saw； but the
furies of passion held him fast。 His hands tore at the cables。 Then he fell to
pacing to and fro in the gloom。 Every moment the river changed its voice。 In
an hour flood would be down。 Too late； then！ Bostil again remembered the
sleek； slim； racy thoroughbredsBlue Roan； a wild horse he had longed to own；
and Peg； a mare that had no equal in the uplands。 Where did Bostil's hate of a
man stand in comparison with love of a horse？ He began to sweat and the sweat
burned him。
〃How soon'll Creech hear the river an' know what's comin'？〃 muttered Bostil；
darkly。 And that question showed him how he was lost。 All this strife of doubt
and fear and horror were of no use。 He meant to doom Creech's horses。 The
thing had been unalterable from the inception of the insidious； hateful idea。
It was irresistible。 He grew strong； hard； fierce； and implacable。 He found
himself。 He strode back to the cables。 The knots； having dragged in the water；
were soaking wet and swollen。 He could not untie them。 Then he cut one strand
after another。 The boat swung out beyond his reach。
Instinctively Bostil reached to pull it back。
〃My God！ 。 。 。 It's goin'！〃 he whispered。 〃What have I done？〃
HeBostilwho had made this Crossing of the Fathers more famous as Bostil's
Fordheto cut the boat adrift！ The thing was inconceivable。
The roar of the river rose weird and mournful and incessant； with few breaks；
and these were marked by strange ripping and splashing sounds made as the
bulges of water broke on the surface。 Twenty feet out the boat floated；
turning a little as it drifted。 It seemed loath to leave。 It held on the shore
eddy。 Hungrily； spitefully the little； heavy waves lapped it。 Bostil watched
it with dilating eyes。 There！ the current caught one end and the water rose in
a hollow splash over the corner。 An invisible hand； like a mighty giant's；
seemed to swing the boat out。 It had been dark； now it was opaque； now
shadowy； now dim。 How swift this cursed river！ Was there any way in which
Bostil could recover his boat？ The river answered him with hollow； deep
mockery。 Despair seized upon him。 And the vague shape of the boat； spectral
and instinct with meaning； passed from Bostil's strained gaze。
〃So help me God； I've done it！〃 he groaned； hoarsely。 And he staggered back
and sat down。 Mind and heart and soul were suddenly and exquisitely acute to
the shame of his act。 Remorse seized upon his vitals。 He suffered physical
agony； as if a wolf gnawed him internally。
〃To hell with Creech an' his hosses； but where do I come in as a man？〃 he
whispered。 And he sat there； arms tight around his knees； locked both mentally
and physically into inaction。
The rising water broke the spell and drove him back。 The river was creeping no
longer。 It swelled。 And the roar likewise swelled。 Bostil hurried across the
flat to get to the rocky trail before he was cut off； and the last few rods he
waded in water up to his knees。
〃I'll leave no trail there；〃 he muttered； with a hard laugh。 It sounded
ghastly to him； like the laugh of the river。
And there at the foot of the rocky trail he halted to watch and listen。 The
old memorable boom came to his ears。 The flood was coming。 For twenty…three
years he had heard the vanguard boom of the Colorado in flood。 But never like
this； for in the sound he heard the strife and passion of his blood； and
realized himself a human counterpart of that remorseless river。 The moments
passed and each one saw a swelling of the volume of sound。 The sullen roar
just below him was gradually lost in a distant roar。 A steady wind now blew
through the canyon。 The great walls seemed to gape wider to prepare for the
torrent。 Bostil backed slowly up the trail as foot by foot the water rose。 The
floor of the amphitheater was now a lake of choppy； angry waves。 The willows
bent and seethed in the edge of the current。 Beyond ran an uneven； bulging
mass that resembled some gray； heavy moving monster。 In the gloom Bostil could
see how the river turned a corner of wall and slanted away from it toward the
center； where it rose higher。 Black objects that must have been driftwood
appeared on this crest。 They showed an instant； then flashed out of sight。 The
boom grew steadier； closer； louder； and the reverberations； like low
detonations of thunder； were less noticeable because all sounds were being
swallowed up。
A harder breeze puffed into Bostil's face。 It brought a tremendous thunder； as
if all the colossal walls were falling in avalanche。 Bostil knew the crest of
the flood had turned the corner above and would soon reach him。 He watched。 He
listened； but sound had ceased。 His cars seemed ringing and they hurt。 All his
body felt cold； and he backed up and up； with dead feet。
The shadows of the canyon lightened。 A river…wide froth； like a curtain； moved
down； spreading mushroom…wise before it； a rolling； heaving maelstrom。 Bostil
ran to escape the great wave that surged into the amphitheater； up and up the
rocky trail。 When he turned again he seemed to look down into hell。 Murky
depths； streaked by pale gleams； and black； sinister； changing forms yawned
beneath them。 He watched with fixed eyes until once more the feeling of filled
ears left him and an awful thundering boom assured him of actualities。 It was
only the Colorado in flood。
CHAPTER XII
Bostil slept that night； but his sleep was troubled； and a strange； dreadful
roar seemed to run through it； like a mournful wind over a dark desert。 He was
awakened early by a voice at his window。 He listened。 There came a rap on the
wood。
〃Bostil！ 。 。 。 Bostil！〃 It was Holley's voice。
Bostil rolled off the bed。 He had slept without removing any apparel except
his boots。
〃Wal； Hawk； what d'ye mean wakin' a man at this unholy hour？〃 growled Bostil。
Holley's face appeared above the rude sill。 It was pale and grave； with the
hawk eyes li