A step sounded just behind. A hand, the hand of Park, rested upon his shoulder. “Looks kinda dubious, don't it, kid? Was yuh thinking about riding down there?”
“Yes,” Thurston answered simply. “Are you coming?”
“Sure,” Park assented.
They got upon their horses and headed down the trail to the Stevens place. Thurston would have put Sunfish to a run, but Park checked him.
“Go easy,” he admonished. “If there's swimming to be done and it's a cinch there will be, he's going to need all the wind he's got.”
Down the hill they stopped at the edge of a raging torrent and strained their eyes to see what lay on the other side. While they looked, a light twinkled out from among the tree-tops. Thurston caught his breath sharply.
“She's upstairs,” he said, and his voice sounded strained and unnatural. “It's just a loft where they store stuff.” He started to ride into the flood.
“Come on back here, yuh chump!” Park roared. “Get off and loosen the cinch before yuh go in there, or yuh won't get far. Sunfish'll need room to breathe, once he gets to bucking that current. He's a good water horse, just give him his head and don't get rattled and interfere with him. And we've got to go up a ways before we start in.”
He led the way upstream, skirting under the bluff, and Thurston, chafing against the delay, followed obediently. Trees were racing down, their clean-washed roots reaching up in a tangle from the water, their branches waving like imploring arms. A black, tar-papered shack went scudding past, lodged upon a ridge where the water was shallower, and sat there swaying drunkenly. Upon it a great yellow cat clung and yowled his fear.
“That's old Dutch Henry's house,” Park shouted above the roar. “I'll bet he's cussing things blue on some pinnacle up there.” He laughed at the picture his imagination conjured, and rode out into the swirl.