Spring floods, caused by melting snow and ice in the hills and mountains to the west, had made a veritable torrent of the river, and Dick, Toma and Sandy, looking down at the racing, foam-capped waters, were a little dubious about crossing it.
“We’ll never get the horses over at any rate,” Dick decided. “There’s no animal living that can swim against that current. It simply can’t be done.”
“No,” agreed Sandy, “it can’t. And I very much doubt whether we can get across ourselves. It looks to me as if the strongest raft in the world would be dashed to pieces against those rocks in a very few minutes. What do you think, Toma?”
For once, apparently, their guide was at a complete loss to know what to say. He frowned as he looked down below.
“I never see river so bad like that before,” he admitted, shaking his head.
“If Toma thinks it’s bad, it must be pretty bad indeed,” laughed Dick. “How are we going to cross it, I wonder?”
“We no cross here,” said Toma, “but mebbe we find better place somewhere else.”
Acting upon this suggestion, they started out. They followed the river for several miles, making their way along the comparatively level ground that skirted the edge of the canyon. At the end of an hour, they paused in dismay.
“It seems to be getting worse instead of better,” complained Sandy. “It’s hopeless. I don’t believe we’re going to get over.”
“We’ve got to do it somehow,” Dick gritted his teeth. “Let’s make camp here, stake out the ponies and go after this thing systematically. Sandy and I will return to the place we just came from and scout further up the river, while you, Toma, go on in the other direction. We’ll meet back here sometime before evening.”