“I mind the time Jake Hazlett and his crew was drowned at the ‘Wild Goose.’ It seems the coroner was already there a settin’ on a corp’ that had come up in the eddy. ‘Go on through, boys!’ he hollers to ’em, ‘I’ll wait for you down below. It’ll save me another trip from Medders’.”
Bruce worked on, apparently unperturbed by these discouraging reminiscences.
“They say they’s a place down there where the river’s so narrow it’s bent over,” volunteered a third pessimist, as he cut an artistic initial in a plank with the skill of long practice. “And you’ll go through the Black Canyon like a bat out o’ hell. But I has no notion whatsoever that you’ll ever come up when you hits that waterfall on the other end. When her nose dips under, heavy-loaded like that, she’ll sink and fill right thar. Why—”
“Do you rickolect,” quavered a spry young cub of eighty-two who talked of the Civil War and the Nez Perce uprising as though they were the events of yesterday, “do you remember the time ‘Death-on-the-Trail’ lost his hull outfit tryin’ to git through the ‘Devil’s Teeth’? The idee of an old feller like him startin’ out alone! Why he was all of seventy.”
“An’ the time ‘Starvation Bill’ turned over at Proctors’s Falls?” chortled another. “Fritz Yandell said the river was full of grub—cracker cans, prunes and the like o’ that, for clost to a week. I never grieved much to hear of an accident to him for we’d had a railroad in here twenty years ago if it hadn’t been for Bill. The survey outfit took him along for helper and he et up all the grub, so the Injin guide quit ’em cold and they couldn’t go on. I allus hoped he’d starve to death somm’eres, but after a spell of sickness from swallerin’ a ham-bone, he died tryin’ to eat six dozen aigs on a bet.”
“Talkin’ of Fritz Yandell—he told me he fished him a compass and transit out’n the river after them Governmint Yellow-Legs wrecked on Butcher’s Bar.” The speaker added cheerfully: “Since the Whites come into the country I reckon all told you could count the boats that’s got through without trouble on the fingers of one hand. If these boats was goin’ empty I’d say ‘all right—you’re liable to make it,’ but sunk deep in the water with six or eight thousand pounds—Burt, you orter have your head examined.”
But Bruce refused to let himself think of accident. He knew water, he could handle a sweep; he meant to take every precaution and he could, he must get through.
The river was rising rapidly now, not an inch at a time but inches, for the days were warmer—warm enough to start rivulets running from sheltered snowbanks in the mountains. Daily the distance increased from shore to shore. Sprawling trees, driftwood, carcasses, the year’s rubbish from draws and gulches, swept by on the broad bosom of the yellow flood. The half-submerged willows were bending in the current and water-mark after water-mark disappeared on the bridge piles.
Bruce had not realized that the days of waiting had stretched his nerves to such a tension until he learned that the freight had really come. He felt for a moment as though the burdens of the world had been suddenly rolled from his shoulders. His relief was short-lived. It changed to consternation when he saw the last of the machinery piled upon the bank for loading. It weighed not fifty thousand pounds but all of ninety—nearer a hundred! Dumfounded for the moment, he did not see how he could take it. The saving that he had made on the purchase price was eaten up by the extra weight owing to the excessive freight rates from the coast and on the branch line to Meadows. More than that, Jennings had disobeyed his explicit orders to box the smaller parts of each machine together. All had been thrown in the car helter-skelter.