The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail by Zane Grey Read Free Book Online

admiration for the lad. “How’d ye wake up so early?”
    â€œI stayed up all night. I saw three deer swim from the mainland, but nothing else came around.”
    â€œTry yer hand at cleanin’ ’em fer breakfast,” continued Jeff, beginning to busy himself with preparations for that meal. “Wal, wal, if he ain’t surprisin’! He’ll do somethin’ out here on the frontier, sure as I’m a born sinner,” he muttered to himself, wagging his head in his quaint manner.
    Breakfast over, Jeff transferred the horses to the smaller raft, which he had cut loose from his own, and giving a few directions to Bill, started downstream with Mr. Wells and the girls.
    The rafts remained close enough together for a while but as the current quickened and was more skillfully taken advantage of by Jeff, the larger raft gained considerable headway, gradually widening the gap between the two.
    All day they drifted. From time to time Joe and Jim waved their hands to the girls; but the greater portion of their attention was given to quieting the horses. Mose, Joe’s big white dog, retired in disgust to the hut, where he watched and dozed by turns. He did not fancy this kind of voyaging. Bill strained his sturdy arms all day on the steering oar.
    About the middle of the afternoon Joe observed that the hills grew more rugged and precipitous, and the river ran faster. He kept a constant lookout for the wall of rock which marked the point of danger. When the sun had disappeared behind the hills, he saw ahead a gray rock protruding from the green foliage. It was ponderous, overhanging, and seemed to frown down on the river. This was Shawnee Rock. Joe looked long at the cliff, and wondered if there was now an Indian scout hidden behind the pines that skirted the edge. Prominent on the top of the bluff a large, dead tree projected its hoary twisted branches.
    Bill evidently saw the landmark, for he stopped in his monotonous walk to and fro across the raft, and pushing his oar amidships he looked ahead for the other raft. The figure of the tall frontiersman could be plainly seen as he labored at the helm.
    The raft disappeared round a bend, and as it did so Joe saw a white scarf waved by Nell.
    Bill worked the clumsy craft over toward the right shore where the current was more rapid. He pushed with all his strength, and when the oar reached its widest sweep, he lifted it and ran back across the raft for another push. Joe scanned the river ahead. He saw no rapids; only rougher water whirling over some rocks. They were where the channel narrowed and ran close to the right-hand bank. Under a willow-flanked lodge was a sandbar. To Joe there seemed nothing hazardous in drifting through this pass.
    â€œBad place ahead,” said Bill, observing Joe’s survey of the river.
    â€œIt doesn’t look so,” replied Joe.
    â€œA raft ain’t a boat. We could pole a boat. You has to hev water to float logs, an’ the river’s run out considerable. I’m only afeerd fer the hosses. If we hit or drag, they might plunge around a bit.”
    When the raft passed into the head of the bend it struck the rocks several times, but finally gained the channel safely, and everything seemed propitious for an easy passage.
    But, greatly to Bill’s surprise, the wide craft was caught directly in the channel, and swung round so that the steering oar pointed toward the opposite shore. The water roared a foot deep over the logs.
    â€œHold hard on the hosses!” yelled Bill. “Somethin’s wrong. I never seen a snag here.”
    The straining mass of logs, insecurely fastened together, rolled and then pitched loose again, but the short delay had been fatal to the steering apparatus.
    Joe would have found keen enjoyment in the situation, had it not been for his horse, Lance. The thoroughbred was difficult to hold. As Bill was making strenuous efforts to get in a lucky stroke of the oar, he