In
an hour flood would be down. Too late, then! Bostil again remembered the
sleek, slim, racy thoroughbreds--Blue 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?"
He--Bostil--who had made this Crossing of the Fathers more famous as Bostil's
Ford--he--to cut the boat adrift! The thing was inconceivable.
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