is an empty thing; all the virtue lies in
the moving toward the goal.

Often we sank deep in the mud; often at the bends we could scarcely
forge against the blast that held us leaning to the pull. Noon came and
still we had not overtaken the skiff. Dark came, and we had not yet
sighted it. But with the sun, the wind fell, and we paddled on, lank and
chilled. About ten o'clock we sighted the campfire.

We ate flapjacks once more--delicious, butterless flapjacks!--and then
once more we put off into the chill night. We made twelve miles that
day, and every foot had been a fight. I wanted to raise it to
twenty-five before sunrise. No one grumbled this time; but in the light
of the campfire the faces looked cheerless--except the Kid's face.

We huddled up in our blankets and, naturally, all of us went to sleep. A
great shock brought us to our feet. The moon had set and the sky was
overcast. Thick night clung around us. We saw nothing, but by the
rocking of the boats and the roaring of the river, we knew we were
shooting rapids.

Still dazed with sleep, I had a curious sense of being whirled at a
terrific speed into some subterranean suck of waters. There was nothing
to do but wait. We struck rocks and went rolling, shipping buckets of
water at every dip. Then there was a long sickening swoop through utter
blackness. It ended abruptly with a thud that knocked us down.

We found that we were no longer moving. We got out, hanging to the
gunwales. The boats were lodged on a reef of rock, and we were obliged
to "walk" them for some distance, when suddenly the water deepened, and
we all went up to our necks. And the night seemed bitterly cold. I never
shivered more in January.

It was yet too dark to find a camping place; so we drifted on until the
east paled. Then we built a great log fire and baked ourselves until
sunrise.

Day after day my log-book begins with the words, "Heavy head winds," and
ends with "Drifted most of the night." We covered about twenty-five
miles every twenty-four hours. Every day the cooks grumbled more; and
Bill had a way of staring wistfully into the distance and talking about
home, that produced in me an odd mixture of anger and pity.

We had lost our map: we had no calendar. Time and distance, curiously
confused, were merely a weariness in the shoulders.

CHAPTER VII

ON TO THE YELLOWSTONE

At last one evening (shall I confess it?) we had blue-crane soup for
supper!

Now a flig