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.
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