He was dazed and giddy as he swept down the hill, and did not recognise his surroundings.
Had he taken the wrong road, or was this Rattlesnake Creek?
“WAS THIS RATTLESNAKE CREEK?”
It was.
But the brawling creek he had swum a few hours before had risen, more than doubled its volume, and now rolled a swift and resistless river between him and Rattlesnake Hill.
For the first time that night Richard’s heart sank within him.
The river, the mountain, the quickening east swam before his eyes.
He shut them to recover his self-control.
In that brief interval, by some fantastic mental process, the little room at Simpson’s Bar, and the figures of the sleeping father and son, rose upon him.