BOEDER LIFE IN THE WEST. 
233 
cut-throats and robbers, and we give you fair warning that 
the first man of you who touches the boat which is fastened 
to the river shore down there, I will shoot, and with an aim 
that never misses — remember that." 
The rascals slunk away into the dark along with the re- 
pudiated Kelpie of the desolate river, and we were quickly 
left alone. 
To barricade the door with trunks and all the cord-wood 
we had at command, was the first movement, and then to 
take my position as sentinel at the port-hole window, which 
overlooked the place of the boat, was the next. Not a word 
passed between my friend and myself He resumed his seat 
next the door upon his trank, and there he continued stol- 
idly to sit. 
The long rifle of which I had considered myself justified in 
depriving my treacherous host, lay rested upon the port-hole, 
and bearing upon the precious boat which was to rescue us 
from this terrible isolation amidst ruffianism in the morning. 
Oh, a long, long time passed — ^God only knows how long 
it was ! — and still I was standing watching the poor little 
canoe — ^for I could yet distinguish that frail craft — the posi- 
tion of which I had jealously marked, having directed that it 
should be at the foot of a tall sepulchral sycamore, that stood 
out with its white bark as a relief against the dreary gloom. 
At last, I saw two shadows creeping along the dim shore, 
the cold, misty twilight, as the sombre morning crept on- 
wards, making them more vague. 
I had shivered and stood uncertain, anxious and distrustful 
so long, through this weary night, that everything seemed 
at last — now that nature was giving out — unreal, and when 
I saw palpably before my eyes two men enter this boat, and 
heard immediately the beat of oars or paddles, what could I 
do other than fire at the objects in the boat? A shriek told 
all the story, and the boat was instantly whirled down the 
stream. 
The only immediate consolation that I ever received from 
