Sandy nodded his head. “I’ll go along with that.”
“All right,” Mr. Cook said decisively. “That’s decided. We’ll leave as soon as Joe’s ready.”
“Better do what he said,” Mr. Henderson advised, “and set your alarm clocks for five-thirty.”
“You think he’ll be ready then?”
Mr. Henderson nodded. “He’s a pretty tough customer, is old Joe. When he makes up his mind to do a thing—well, it gets done.”
Mr. Cook grinned and threw up his hands in defeat. “Okay. I’m convinced.” He turned and started back into the cabin. “Let’s get going,” he said. “We’ve got some packing to do if we’re leaving for Mormon Crossing in the morning.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cutthroats
Lying in the prow of the lead boat, with his head pillowed on a rolled-up sleeping bag, Sandy watched the towering stands of green pine glide smoothly by. This was their second day on the river and they had yet to see a sign of human life. The clear, sparkling river wound through what seemed to be an endless wilderness of mountain peaks and sweet-smelling fir forests.
The fast-flowing current carried them effortlessly ahead, deeper and deeper into the wild, tangled beauty of the Lost River country. Occasionally, Joe, who was stationed at the tiller in the rear of Sandy’s boat, would yell, “White water ahead!” This was the signal for Sandy to take up his paddle and brace himself firmly against the prow. Then, as Joe steered skillfully through the suddenly turbulent water, Sandy’s job was to keep the boat well away from potentially dangerous rocks by pushing out with a heavy river paddle, whose shaft was almost as thick as his wrist. Behind the first boat, Mike and his father tried to follow the course Joe set.
Only once—when Joe announced that the rapids ahead were too risky—did they have to portage. It was a long, hot job.