But, for that matter, there was
nothing to see. The river was the same.
That night when all was quiet in and around the village Bostil emerged from
his house and took to his stealthy stalk down toward the river.
The moment he got out into the night oppression left him. How interminable the
hours had been! Suspense, doubt, anxiety, fear no longer burdened him. The
night was dark, with only a few stars, and the air was cool. A soft wind blew
across his heated face. A neighbor's dog, baying dismally, startled Bostil. He
halted to listen, then stole on under the cottonwoods, through the sage, down
the trail, into the jet-black canyon. Yet he found his way as if it had been
light. In the darkness of his room he had been a slave to his indecision; now
in the darkness of the looming cliffs he was free, resolved, immutable.
The distance seemed short. He passed out of the narrow canyon, skirted the
gorge over the river, and hurried down into the shadowy amphitheater under the
looming walls.
The boat lay at the mooring, one end resting lightly the sand-bar.
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