For once Prowers was taken at disadvantage. “I ain’t any sailor, Don.”
“None of us are. But you offered to help. ’Course, if you’re scared.”
The cattleman’s head moved forward, his eyes narrowed. “Did you say scared?”
“Sure. Last time I seen you, Jake, you was guessin’ I had a yellow streak. I’m wonderin’ that about you now. I’m aimin’ to go on this boat. Are you?” The range rider’s gaze bored into the eyes of the man he had served so long. It was chill and relentless as steel.
Prowers was no coward, but he had not the least intention of voyaging across the flood in so frail a craft.
“Too old, Don. I ain’t strong as some o’ these young bucks. You go on, an’ when you come back we’ll settle about that yellow streak for good an’ all.”
The raft set out on its perilous journey. A young surveyor had offered to go as the second member of the crew.
Pegs had been driven into the edges of the raft for rowlocks. The oars had been hastily fashioned out of planking.
The float drifted into the rapid water and was caught by the current. Black and his companion pulled lustily to make headway across stream. There was a minute of desperate struggle before the craft swung round, driven by the force of water tumbling pell-mell down.
A rowlock snapped. Black’s oar was dragged from his hand. A log crashed into the raft and buckled it up. Caught by a cross-tide, the two who had been flung into the water were swept into an eddy. They swam and clambered ashore.