lling, and the other slashing them over
the rump, they made it, one at a time. The sand was soft and acted
something like quicksand, too, and we hustled them to shore and tied them
to some bushes. The bank was steep there, and we didn't know how we were
going to make the climb, but we left that to worry over afterward; we
still had our rig to get ashore, and it began to look like quite a
contract.

We went back, with our boot tracks going deep, and then filling up and
settling back almost level six steps behind us. Frosty looked back at them
and scowled.

"For sand that isn't quicksand," he said, "this layout will stand about as
little monkeying with as any sand I ever met up with. Time we make a few
trips over it, she's going to be pudding without the raisins. And that's
a picnic, with our rig on the main deck, as you might say."

We went back and sat swinging our legs off the free board end of the ferry
boat, and rolled us a smoke apiece and considered the next move. King was
somewhere back between our rig and his, cussing Pochette to a
fare-you-well for having such a rotten layout and making white men pay
good money for the privilege of risking their lives and property upon it.

"We'll have to unload and take the wagon to pieces and pack everything
ashore--I guess that's our only show," said Frosty. We had just given up
my idea of working the scow up along the bar to the bank. We couldn't
budge her off the sand, and Pochette warned us that if we did the wind
would immediately commence doing things to us again.

Frosty's idea seemed the only possible way, so we threw away our
cigarettes and got ready for business; the dismembering and carrying
ashore of that road-wagon promised to be no light task. Frosty yelled to
Pochette to come and get busy, and went to work on the rig. It looked to
me like a case where we were all in the same fix, and personal spite
shouldn't count for anything, but King was leaning against the wheel of
his buggy, cramming tobacco into his stubby pipe--the same one apparently
that I had rescued from the pickle barrel--and, seeing the wind scatter
half of it broadcast, as though he didn't care a rap whether he got solid
earth beneath his feet once more, or went floating down the river.
I wanted to propose a truce for such time as it would take to get us all
safe on terra firma, but on second thoughts I refrained. We could get off
without his help, and he was the sort of man who would cheerfull