"Where did it come from?" I inquired.
"From some of the Union Pacific bridges, about six hundred miles above here," he replied. "Some flood brought it down."
"It's a fine stringer," I commented.
"There's any quantity of good stuff in the drift over there," Jim said, "boards and about everything else we need to make our old raft shipshape. It's time to knock off work, boys, now; you have made a good start on those logs."
"I'm going to wash off," I declared.
The rest followed my example. It was a close, hot evening and it felt mighty refreshing to get into the river, for we had put in a hard day's work and were dirty and sweaty, though we were not especially tired.
"Why don't you swim over to that rock, Jim?" I asked.
"Not for me," he said, shaking his head. "I know when I have had enough."
We did not stay in the water long and in a short time we were seated in camp, and with ravenous appetites were attacking our supper, our heads still wet and our faces shining red from the water and the sun.
We were just tired enough to enjoy sitting on the old bent cottonwood, swinging our feet. You know how you feel if you have been tramping all day or working in the fields, and after a good clean up, sit down to a square meal.