The rugged, overhanging walls of the canyon grew sinister in Shefford’s sight.  They were jaws.  And the river—­that made him shudder to look down into it.  The little whirling pits were eyes peering into his, and they raced on with the boat, disappeared, and came again, always with the little, hollow gurgles.

The craft drifted swiftly and the roar increased.  Another rapid seemed to move up into view.  It came at a bend in the canyon.  When the breeze struck Shefford’s cheeks he did not this time experience exhilaration.  The current accelerated its sliding motion and bore the flatboat straight for the middle of the curve.  Shefford saw the bend, a long, dark, narrow, gloomy canyon, and a stretch of contending waters, then, crouching low, he waited for the dip, the race, the shock.  They came —­the last stopping the boat—­throwing it aloft—­letting it drop—­ and crests of angry waves curled over the side.  Shefford, kneeling, felt the water slap around him, and in his ears was a deafening roar.  There were endless moments of strife and hell and flying darkness of spray all about him, and under him the rocking boat.  When they lessened—­ceased in violence—­he stood ankle-deep in water, and then madly he began to bail.

Another roar deadened his ears, but he did not look up from his toil.  And when he had to get down to avoid the pitch he closed his eyes.  That rapid passed and with more water to bail, he resumed his share in the manning of the crude craft.  It was more than a share—­a tremendous responsibility to which he bent with all his might.  He heard Joe yell—­and again—­and again.  He heard the increasing roars one after another till they seemed one continuous bellow.  He felt the shock, the pitch, the beating waves, and then the lessening power of sound and current.  That set him to his task.  Always in these long intervals of toil he seemed to see, without looking up, the growing proportions of the canyon.  And the river had become a living, terrible thing.  The intervals of his tireless effort when he scooped the water overboard were fleeting, and the rides through rapid after rapid were endless periods of waiting terror.  His spirit and his hope were overwhelmed by the rush and roar and fury.

Then, as he worked, there came a change—­a rest to deafened ears—­a stretch of river that seemed quiet after chaos—­and here for the first time he bailed the boat clear of water.

Jane and Fay were huddled in a corner, with the flapping tarpaulin now half fallen over them.  They were wet and muddy.  Lassiter crouched like a man dazed by a bad dream, and his white hair hung, stained and bedraggled, over his face.  The Indian and the Mormon, grim, hard, worn, stood silent at the oar.

The afternoon was far advanced and the sun had already descended below the western ramparts.  A cool breeze blew up the canyon, laden with a sound that was the same, yet not the same, as those low, dull roars which Shefford dreaded more and more.