ss 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 thoroughbreds--Blue 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?"

He--Bostil--who had made this Crossing of the Fathers more famous as
Bostil's Ford--he--to 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 sw