"It goes along all right ontil I swings down to the crossin' of the
Canadian. It's about fourth-drink time in the afternoon, an' I'm
allowin' to ford the Canadian that evenin' an' camp on t'other side.
The river is high an' rapid from rain some'ers back on its head
waters, an' it's wide an' ugly. It ain't more'n four foot deep, but
the bottom is quicksand, an' that false, if I lets my wagons stop
ten seconds anywhere between bank an' bank, I'm goin' to be shy
wagons at the close. I'll be lucky if I win out the mules. It's
shore a hard, swift crossin'.
"I swings down, as I says, to the river's aige with my mind filled
up about the rush I've got to make. It's go through on the run or
bog down. First I settles in my saddle, gives the outfit the word,
an' then, pourin' the whip into the two leaders, I sends the whole
eight into the water on the jump. The river is runnin' like a scared
wolf, an' the little lead mules hardly touches bottom.
"As the trail wagon takes the water, an' the two leaders is plumb in
to the y'ears, a howl develops to the r'ar. It's my pore tenderfoot
in his hammock onder the trail wagon. He shrieks as the water gets
to him; an' it all hits me like a bullet, for I plumb overlooks him,
thinkin' of that quicksand crossin'.
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