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 ears 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.
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