There was no more sleep for Bruce that night. Bewildered, dumfounded by the discovery, he rolled himself in a “tarp” and laid down on the boat’s platform. So far as he knew he had not an enemy in the town. There seemed absolutely no reasonable explanation for the act.
XIX
At the Big Mallard
The sun rose the next morning upon an eventful day in Bruce’s life. He was backing his judgment—or was it only his mulish obstinacy?—against the conviction of the community. He knew that if it had not been for their personal friendship for himself the married men among his boatmen would have backed out. There was excitement and tension in the air.
The wide, yellow river was running like a mill-race, bending the willows, lapping hungrily at the crumbling shore. The bank was black with groups of people, tearful wives and whimpering children, lugubrious neighbors, pessimistic citizens. Bruce called the men together and assigned each boat its place in line. Beyond explicit orders that no boatman should attempt to pass another and the barges must be kept a safe distance apart, he gave few instructions, for they had only to follow his lead.
“But if you see I’m in trouble, follow Saunders, who’s second. And, Jim, do exactly as Smaltz tells you—you’ll be on the hind sweep in the third boat with him.”
In addition to a head and hind sweepman each barge carried a bailer, for there were rapids where at any stage of the water a boat partially filled. The men now silently took their places and Bruce on his platform gripped the sweep-handle and nodded—
“Cast off.”
The barge drifted a little distance slowly, then faster; the current caught it and it started on its journey like some great swift-swimming bird. As he glided into the shadow of the bridge Saunders started; before he turned the bend Smaltz was waving his farewells, and as Meadows vanished from his sight the fourth boat, the heaviest loaded, was on its way. Bruce drew a deep breath, rest was behind him, the next three days would be hours of almost continual anxiety and strain.