“If I can bring him a good sketch map of it, it will put my boss in a good humor,” said Conacher.
They made their way down to the water’s edge; and chose a camping spot on a curious tongue of land pointing downstream. At the highest stage of water it was an island; but it was now connected with the shore by a bar of dried mud. On one side of them the resistless brown flood swept down silently, its silken surface etched with eddies; on the other side there was a quiet back-water which Conacher said would be ideal for constructing the raft. He spent the remaining hours of daylight in searching for the three big, dead trees that he required for that purpose.
They slept in great comfort on heaps of spruce boughs, with a generous fire between them. Even in July the nights were cold. In the silence of the night they discovered that the smoothly flowing river had a voice. It was neither a roar nor a whisper, but partook of the nature of both sounds. Though scarcely audible, it was tremendous; like the breathing and stirring of a mighty bed-fellow.
The entire following day was devoted to the construction of the raft. Conacher cut down his trees; lopped off the branches; and chopped the trunks in two. He then launched his logs, and floated them together. During the earlier stages of his labor, he was often obliged to wade thigh deep into the icy water. Since he had neither spikes to fasten the logs, nor rope to lash them together, he was forced patiently to burn holes in them with his ramrod, heated in the fire. Twenty-four such holes had to be burned; and twelve neatly fitting wooden pegs shaped with the ax. Two short lengths were laid across the six logs and pegged down. The peg at each corner was allowed to stick up a few inches. A flooring of poles was then laid on the crosspieces to keep the passengers and their slender baggage dry. These poles were not fastened down, but were held in place by the pegs at each corner. Conacher’s last act was to burn a hole in each of the outside logs into which he drove a stout forked branch to serve as a rowlock. The oars were merely small spruce poles flattened with the ax at the broad end.
The builder surveyed his completed effort with a pride that was difficult to conceal. “After all this work,” he said with his offhand air, “I shall be good and sore if we have to abandon it in a few miles.”
“It is beautiful!” said Loseis.
For a touch of bravura Conacher made a little hearth of clay tiled with flat stones on one end of his raft; and laid a fire ready to light. “So we can boil our meat as we travel,” he explained.
“It is like a steamboat!” said Loseis.
They turned in early; and were ready to push off soon after sunrise the following morning. This was the fourteenth morning after their departure from the slough where their enemies had turned back. The raft proved to possess ample buoyancy; they could move about on it with a certain freedom. The floor of poles held them safely above danger of a wetting. Mary-Lou lighted the fire, and put the breakfast on to cook.
Loseis and Conacher sculled out of the back-water. At the foot of the island the current seized them as in a giant hand and drew them along. They took their oars inboard. There was nothing further to do. The tendency of the current itself was to draw them into the center of the stream, and keep them there. They sat down on their blankets to survey the scenery. The raft gyrated slowly in the eddies, giving them views up and down stream without so much as having to turn their heads.