The Mormon flung high his arms and let out the stentorian yell that had rolled down to the fugitives as they waited at the mouth of Nonnezoshe Boco. But now it had a wilder, more exultant note. Strange how he shifted his gaze to Fay Larkin!
“Girl! Get up and look!” he called. “The Ferry! The Ferry!”
Then he bent his brawny back over the steering-oar, and the clumsy craft slowly turned toward the left-hand shore, where a long, low bank of green willows and cottonwoods gave welcome relief to the eyes. Upon the opposite side of the river Shefford saw a boat, similar to the one he was in, moored to the bank.
“Shore, if I ain't losin' my eyes, I seen an Injun with a red blanket,” said Lassiter.
“Yes, Lassiter,” cried Shefford. “Look, Fay! Look, Jane! See! Indians—hogans—mustangs—there above the green bank!”
The boat glided slowly shoreward. And the deep, hungry, terrible rumble of the remorseless river became something no more to dread.
XX. WILLOW SPRINGS
Two days' travel from the river, along the saw-toothed range of Echo Cliffs, stood Presbrey's trading-post, a little red-stone square house in a green and pretty valley called Willow Springs.
It was nearing the time of sunset—that gorgeous hour of color in the Painted Desert—when Shefford and his party rode down upon the post.