wildfire-第32节

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on　the　slopes。　It　was　the　voice　of　all　that　widely　separated　water　spilled
suddenly　with　magical　power　into　the　desert　river　to　make　it　a　mighty；
thundering　torrent；　red　and　defiled；　terrible　in　its　increasing　onslaught　into
the　canyon；　deep；　ponderous；　but　swift　the　Colorado　in　flood。

And　as　Bostil　heard　that　voice　he　trembled。　What　was　the　thing　he　meant　to　do？
A　thousand　thoughts　assailed　him　in　answer　and　none　were　clear。　A　chill　passed
over　him。　Suddenly　he　felt　that　the　cold　stole　up　from　his　feet。　They　were
both　in　the　water。　He　pulled　them　out　and；　bending　down；　watched　the　dim；　dark
line　of　water。　It　moved　up　and　up；　inch　by　inch；　swiftly。　The　river　was　on　the
rise！

Bostil　leaped　up。　He　seemed　possessed　of　devils。　A　rippling　hot　gash　of　blood
fired　his　every　vein　and　tremor　after　tremor　shook　him。

〃By　G…d！　I　had　it　rightshe's　risin'！〃　he　exclaimed；　hoarsely。

He　stared　in　fascinated　certainty　at　the　river。　All　about　it　and　pertaining　to
it　had　changed。　The　murmur　and　moan　changed　to　a　low；　sullen　roar。　The　music
was　gone。　The　current　chafed　at　its　rock…bound　confines。　Here　was　an　uneasy；
tormented；　driven　river！　The　light　from　the　stars　shone　on　dark；　glancing；
restless　waters；　uneven　and　strange。　And　while　Bostil　watched；　whether　it　was
a　short　time　or　long；　the　remorseless；　destructive　nature　of　the　river　showed
itself。

Bostil　began　to　pace　the　sands。　He　thought　of　those　beautiful　race…horses
across　the　river。

〃It's　not　too　late！〃　he　muttered。　〃I　can　get　the　boat　over　an'　backyet！〃

He　knew　that　on　the　morrow　the　Colorado　in　flood　would　bar　those　horses；
imprison　them　in　a　barren　canyon；　shut　them　in　to　starve。

〃It'd　be　hellish！　。　。　。　Bostil；　you　can't　do　it。　You　ain't　thet　kind　of　a　man
。　。　。　。　Bostil　poison　a　water…hole　where　hosses　loved　to　drink；　or　burn　over
grass！　。　。　。　What　would　Lucy　think　of　you？　。　。　。　No；　Bostil；　you've　let　spite
rule　bad。　Hurry　now　and　save　them　hosses！〃

He　strode　down　to　the　boat。　It　swung　clear　now；　and　there　was　water　between　it
and　the　shore。　Bostil　laid　hold　of　the　cables。　As　he　did　so　he　thought　of
Creech　and　a　blackness　enfolded　him。　He　forgot　Creech's　horses。　Something
gripped　him；　burned　himsome　hard　and　bitter　feeling　which　he　thought　was
hate　of　Creech。　Again　the　wave　of　fire　ran　over　him；　and　his　huge　hands
strained　on　the　cables。　The　fiend　of　that　fiendish　river　had　entered　his　soul。
He　meant　ruin　to　a　man。　He　meant　more　than　ruin。　He　meant　to　destroy　what　his
enemy；　his　rival　loved。　The　darkness　all　about　him；　the　gloom　and　sinister
shadow　of　the　canyon；　the　sullen　increasing　roar　of　the'　riverthese　lent
their　influence　to　the　deed；　encouraged　him；　drove　him　onward；　fought　and
strangled　the　resistance　in　his　heart。　As　he　brooded　all　the　motives　for　the
deed　grew　like　that　remorseless　river。　Had　not　his　enemy's　son　shot　at　him
from　ambush？　Was　not　his　very　life　at　stake？　A　terrible　blow　must　be　dealt
Creech；　one　that　would　crush　him　or　else　lend　him　manhood　enough　to　come　forth
with　a　gun。　Bostil；　in　his　torment；　divined　that　Creech　would　know　who　had
ruined　him。　They　would　meet　then；　as　Bostil　had　tried　more　than　once　to　bring
about　a　meeting。　Bostil　saw　into　his　soul；　and　it　was　a　gulf　like　this　canyon
pit　where　the　dark　and　sullen　river　raged。　He　shrank　at　what　he　saw；　but　the
furies　of　passion　held　him　fast。　His　hands　tore　at　the　cables。　Then　he　fell　to
pacing　to　and　fro　in　the　gloom。　Every　moment　the　river　changed　its　voice。　In
an　hour　flood　would　be　down。　Too　late；　then！　Bostil　again　remembered　the
sleek；　slim；　racy　thoroughbredsBlue　Roan；　a　wild　horse　he　had　longed　to　own；
and　Peg；　a　mare　that　had　no　equal　in　the　uplands。　Where　did　Bostil's　hate　of　a
man　stand　in　comparison　with　love　of　a　horse？　He　began　to　sweat　and　the　sweat
burned　him。

〃How　soon'll　Creech　hear　the　river　an'　know　what's　comin'？〃　muttered　Bostil；
darkly。　And　that　question　showed　him　how　he　was　lost。　All　this　strife　of　doubt
and　fear　and　horror　were　of　no　use。　He　meant　to　doom　Creech's　horses。　The
thing　had　been　unalterable　from　the　inception　of　the　insidious；　hateful　idea。
It　was　irresistible。　He　grew　strong；　hard；　fierce；　and　implacable。　He　found
himself。　He　strode　back　to　the　cables。　The　knots；　having　dragged　in　the　water；
were　soaking　wet　and　swollen。　He　could　not　untie　them。　Then　he　cut　one　strand
after　another。　The　boat　swung　out　beyond　his　reach。

Instinctively　Bostil　reached　to　pull　it　back。

〃My　God！　。　。　。　It's　goin'！〃　he　whispered。　〃What　have　I　done？〃

HeBostilwho　had　made　this　Crossing　of　the　Fathers　more　famous　as　Bostil's
Fordheto　cut　the　boat　adrift！　The　thing　was　inconceivable。

The　roar　of　the　river　rose　weird　and　mournful　and　incessant；　with　few　breaks；
and　these　were　marked　by　strange　ripping　and　splashing　sounds　made　as　the
bulges　of　water　broke　on　the　surface。　Twenty　feet　out　the　boat　floated；
turning　a　little　as　it　drifted。　It　seemed　loath　to　leave。　It　held　on　the　shore
eddy。　Hungrily；　spitefully　the　little；　heavy　waves　lapped　it。　Bostil　watched
it　with　dilating　eyes。　There！　the　current　caught　one　end　and　the　water　rose　in
a　hollow　splash　over　the　corner。　An　invisible　hand；　like　a　mighty　giant's；
seemed　to　swing　the　boat　out。　It　had　been　dark；　now　it　was　opaque；　now
shadowy；　now　dim。　How　swift　this　cursed　river！　Was　there　any　way　in　which
Bostil　could　recover　his　boat？　The　river　answered　him　with　hollow；　deep
mockery。　Despair　seized　upon　him。　And　the　vague　shape　of　the　boat；　spectral
and　instinct　with　meaning；　passed　from　Bostil's　strained　gaze。

〃So　help　me　God；　I've　done　it！〃　he　groaned；　hoarsely。　And　he　staggered　back
and　sat　down。　Mind　and　heart　and　soul　were　suddenly　and　exquisitely　acute　to
the　shame　of　his　act。　Remorse　seized　upon　his　vitals。　He　suffered　physical
agony；　as　if　a　wolf　gnawed　him　internally。

〃To　hell　with　Creech　an'　his　hosses；　but　where　do　I　come　in　as　a　man？〃　he
whispered。　And　he　sat　there；　arms　tight　around　his　knees；　locked　both　mentally
and　physically　into　inaction。

The　rising　water　broke　the　spell　and　drove　him　back。　The　river　was　creeping　no
longer。　It　swelled。　And　the　roar　likewise　swelled。　Bostil　hurried　across　the
flat　to　get　to　the　rocky　trail　before　he　was　cut　off；　and　the　last　few　rods　he
waded　in　water　up　to　his　knees。

〃I'll　leave　no　trail　there；〃　he　muttered；　with　a　hard　laugh。　It　sounded
ghastly　to　him；　like　the　laugh　of　the　river。

And　there　at　the　foot　of　the　rocky　trail　he　halted　to　watch　and　listen。　The
old　memorable　boom　came　to　his　ears。　The　flood　was　coming。　For　twenty…three
years　he　had　heard　the　vanguard　boom　of　the　Colorado　in　flood。　But　never　like
this；　for　in　the　sound　he　heard　the　strife　and　passion　of　his　blood；　and
realized　himself　a　human　counterpart　of　that　remorseless　river。　The　moments
passed　and　each　one　saw　a　swelling　of　the　volume　of　sound。　The　sullen　roar
just　below　him　was　gradually　lost　in　a　distant　roar。　A　steady　wind　now　blew
through　the　canyon。　The　great　walls　seemed　to　gape　wider　to　prepare　for　the
torrent。　Bostil　backed　slowly　up　the　trail　as　foot　by　foot　the　water　rose。　The
floor　of　the　amphitheater　was　now　a　lake　of　choppy；　angry　waves。　The　willows
bent　and　seethed　in　the　edge　of　the　current。　Beyond　ran　an　uneven；　bulging
mass　that　resembled　some　gray；　heavy　moving　monster。　In　the　gloom　Bostil　could
see　how　the　river　turned　a　corner　of　wall　and　slanted　away　from　it　toward　the
center；　where　it　rose　higher。　Black　objects　that　must　have　been　driftwood
appeared　on　this　crest。　They　showed　an　instant；　then　flashed　out　of　sight。　The
boom　grew　steadier；　closer；　louder；　and　the　reverberations；　like　low
detonations　of　thunder；　were　less　noticeable　because　all　sounds　were　being
swallowed　up。

A　harder　breeze　puffed　into　Bostil's　face。　It　brought　a　tremendous　thunder；　as
if　all　the　colossal　walls　were　falling　in　avalanche。　Bostil　knew　the　crest　of
the　flood　had　turned　the　corner　above　and　would　soon　reach　him。　He　watched。　He
listened；　but　sound　had　ceased。　His　cars　seemed　ringing　and　they　hurt。　All　his
body　felt　cold；　and　he　backed　up　and　up；　with　dead　feet。

The　shadows　of　the　canyon　lightened。　A　river…wide　froth；　like　a　curtain；　moved
down；　spreading　mushroom…wise　before　it；　a　rolling；　heaving　maelstrom。　Bostil
ran　to　escape　the　great　wave　that　surged　into　the　amphitheater；　up　and　up　the
rocky　trail。　When　he　turned　again　he　seemed　to　look　down　into　hell。　Murky
depths；　streaked　by　pale　gleams；　and　black；　sinister；　changing　forms　yawned
beneath　them。　He　watched　with　fixed　eyes　until　once　more　the　feeling　of　filled
ears　left　him　and　an　awful　thundering　boom　assured　him　of　actualities。　It　was
only　the　Colorado　in　flood。



CHAPTER　XII

Bostil　slept　that　night；　but　his　sleep　was　troubled；　and　a　strange；　dreadful
roar　seemed　to　run　through　it；　like　a　mournful　wind　over　a　dark　desert。　He　was
awakened　early　by　a　voice　at　his　window。　　He　listened。　There　came　a　rap　on　the
wood。

〃Bostil！　。　。　。　Bostil！〃　It　was　Holley's　voice。

Bostil　rolled　off　the　bed。　He　had　slept　without　removing　any　apparel　except
his　boots。

〃Wal；　Hawk；　what　d'ye　mean　wakin'　a　man　at　this　unholy　hour？〃　growled　Bostil。

Holley's　face　appeared　above　the　rude　sill。　It　was　pale　and　grave；　with　the
hawk　eyes　li