The Last of the Plainsmen 



By night the river, in common with all swift 

 rivers, had a sullen voice, and murmured its hurry, 

 its restraint, its menace, its meaning. The two boat 

 men, one at the steering gear, one at the oars, faced 

 the pelting rain and watched the dim, dark line of 

 trees. The craft slid noiselessly onward into the 

 gloom. 



And into Jones s ears, above the storm, poured 

 another sound, a steady, muffled rumble, like the roll 

 of giant chariot wheels. It had come to be a familiar 

 roar to him, and the only thing which, in his long life 

 of hazard, had ever sent the cold, prickling, tight 

 shudder over his warm skin. Many times on the 

 Athabasca that rumble had presaged the dangerous 

 and dreaded rapids. 



&quot;Hell Bend Rapids!&quot; shouted Rea. &quot;Bad 

 water, but no rocks.&quot; 



The rumble expanded to a roar, the roar to a boom 

 that charged the air with heaviness, with a dreamy 

 burr. The whole indistinct world appeared to be 

 moving to the lash of wind, to the sound of rain, to 

 the roar of the river. The boat shot down and sailed 

 aloft, met shock on shock, breasted leaping dim white 

 waves, and in a hollow, unearthly blend of watery 

 sounds, rode on and on, buffeted, tossed, pitched into 

 a black chaos that yet gleamed with obscure shrouds 

 of light. Ther r the convulsive stream shrieked out 



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