“Yes. He’s crazy as a bed-bug—”
“Please proceed,” Donald urged.
“Well,” Jim glanced around. “I don’t begin to understand this part at all and I shall not blame you if you set it down as a pipe dream.” He turned to Bob. “We haven’t discussed it between ourselves, Buddy, so you listen carefully and check up on what I tell them. Chip in if I’m wrong anywhere.”
“Shoot,” Bob replied, so Austin proceeded with the tale of the appearance of the band, through the final destruction of both white men and dark, by the released waters.
“I say, Don,” the doctor’s voice was low and not very steady, “is that Bloody Dam—the place where—”
“I believe so, Sir.” He turned to Bob. “You were beside your step-brother, would you please tell us this part of the story as you saw it?”
“It’s about the same as Jim. I had a feeling that it was a dream, but the whole thing seemed sort of unreal and I didn’t think of the Indian band as different from everything else, not until I came out and was where I could pay any attention to the things separately,” Bob replied, then he went on telling how he had crouched by the tree, cautiously wriggling until he got his teeth in the rope to chew it apart. Jim’s appearance just before the task was finished and cutting the lariat with his knife. He proceeded with the account of the Indians, the final swirling of the water almost to their feet and its receding as it found the lower outlet. When the boy paused, his face was white and drawn.
“Suppose you have a drink of this,” the doctor urged. He stirred something, in a glass of water, gave some to each of the lads, and in a moment their tenseness relaxed somewhat and the color came back to their faces.
“Thank you,” said Jim, then started with the rest of the narrative.