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beat of hammers, until the workmen heard the crowd's cries and saw him going by with mud flying from his feet.
    He looked at the river again. Not a craft rode it. Out on the bosom of the stream the drift swept along. It was a flood, a flood going down but still too much for a boat. 'No one would put out in that current, unless to save his hide. Over on the other side, upstream, he saw the ferry, moored high and idle by the rank of buildings that was now the shore line.
    He cut left, around the corner of a house that barely cleared the flood, and a stone's throw farther on saw a round man sitting on a broken porch eying the sweep of water. On the edge of the box on which he sat a long piece of punk smoked. Below him, tied to the porch's slanting upright, a rowboat rocked to the lap of the water.
    The round man raised his eyes, on his face an asking look, as Boone came running through the mud. He put his hand to his side and got his stick of punk and held it to his pipe while his mouth worked at the stem.
    "Acrost!" Boone said.
    The man's glance lifted from the bowl of his pipe, to come to sudden point as Boone brought the rifle up. He took the pipe from his mouth and laid down his piece of punk. "Son," he said, "if I'm bound to die one way or t'other I'll take 'er right here, warm and nice and sudden."
    Boone was working at the rope on the upright, his rifle in the crook of his arm. The man sat quiet, puffing. His head turned as the crowd rounded the corner and the voices came into full cry as if a door had opened.
    Boone had the knot untied at last. He jumped into the boat. The front of the pack charged up like a wave above him and threatened to break over. Pap grabbed the upright and leaned out, circling it with one arm while he shook the fist on the other. As if from a distance, while he bent to his oars, Boone heard Pap's "Come back, you tarnal fool!" It rose above the cries of the others, strained and sharp, and after it came another voice like a war whoop. "See you in St. Louis. Wait thar for me!" On the edge of the porch, waving his arms like a rooster, stood Jim Deakins, bareheaded, his sorrel hair whipping in the breeze.
    The boat pulled like a mule, trying to get her head around and to run with the current. He fought her with all his strength, straining at the right-hand oar to keep her nosed up. He saw the shore backing away and realized the crowd had fallen silent and stood watchful and expecting. Deakins' voice floated out, "Take 'er easy! Watch you don't git rammed!"
    The watchers lost outline, fading to a jerky shimmer of color as the stream caught him and bore him down. A half mile up the river they were now, though he was still within easy holler of the shore. The bank streamed past him and edged away by inches. He felt the scrape of it on her side before it hit. The nose of the boat rose, slow at first, and then the whole craft pitched over. From the tail of his eye, as he snatched for his rifle, he glimpsed the log that had run him down. He came up gasping and kicked out, still headed for the farther shore. The boat was below him, turning bottom side up as it ran with the stream.
    The water pulled at him. He felt the power of it from ankle to neck as he flattened and began to stroke, felt the pressure of it, the heavy, brute force of it all about him. The rifle was like a great sinker in his hand, but he hung to it, fighting with his other hand to keep up and going. The quick waves lapped at his face and head. The bigger ones washed over him. His pouch and horn trailed like an anchor under his belly. He strangled and went under and came up coughing water, thrashing out with his free arm. The hand struck something, struck and held while his nails bit for a hold. He pulled up and rested, riding a soggy timber that floated low in the water. He brought his rifle to it and managed to lift it and work it onto the timber. Keeping the butt under one hand while the other clutched the far side of his raft, he started