Bill sighed and passed a hand across his broad brow. “It’s no sort of self-righteousness with me, boy,” he went on. “I just won’t know an easy moment if I don’t do everything in my power to beat that crazy Indian. Come on. We’ll get right on. We’ll clear these rapids and part the other side.”
He moved hurriedly down to the water’s edge and began to cast the moorings adrift. Chilcoot held the canoes ready. In a few moments both had taken their places, and the thrusting paddles still held the little vessels against the stream.
Bill suddenly held out a hand from which the mitt had been removed, and Chilcoot gripped it forcefully.
“We’ll shake right here, old pard,” Bill said quietly. “When we get below we’ll be full up keeping clear of the popple. You got everything clear. An’ ther’s nothing on the river to beat you. I’ll be glad to have your wish of luck.”
Their hands fell apart.
“You sure have it, Bill, all the luck that’s always yours rolled right up into one.”
Chilcoot nodded and his eyes sparkled with real feeling. “So long,” he cried.
“So long.”
Bill’s farewell came ringing back as his little craft shot out into the stream under the plunging stroke of his paddle.