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' back--yet!"
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 him--some 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.
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