“Who is the third man that’s missing? Can anyone tell?”
“I think, captain, it’s Kirker.”
“It is Kirker, by the ’tarnal! I seed him down. Wagh! They’ll lift his har to a sartinty.”
“Ay, they’ll fish him out below. That’s a sure case.”
“They’ll fish out a good haul o’ thur own, I reckin. It’ll be a tight race, anyhow. I’ve heern o’ a horse runnin’ agin a thunder shower; but them niggurs ’ll make good time, if thur tails ain’t wet afore they git t’other eend—they will.”
As the trapper spoke, the floating and still struggling bodies of his comrades were carried to a bend in the cañon, and whirled out of sight. The channel was now filled with the foaming yellow flood that frothed against the rocks as it forged onward.
Our danger was over for the time. The cañon had become impassable; and, after gazing for a while upon the torrent, most of us with feelings of awe, we turned away, and walked toward the spot where we had left our horses.