Oshondonto
knew that on the issue of this shameless business--this cruel sport of
Silver Tassel--would depend his future on the Peace River. As he shot
forward with strong strokes in the whirling torrent after the helpless
lad, who, only able to keep himself afloat, was being swept down towards
the rapids below, he glanced up to the bank along which the Athabascas
were running. He saw the garish colours of their dresses; he saw the
ignorant medicine man, with his mysterious bag, making incantations; he
saw the tepee of the chief, with its barbarous pennant above; he saw the
idle, naked children tearing at the entrails of a calf; and he realised
that this was a deadly tournament between civilisation and barbarism.
Silver Tassel was gaining on him, they were both overhauling the boy; it
was now to see which should reach Wingo first, which should take him to
shore. That is, if both were not carried under before they reached him;
that is, if, having reached him, they and he would ever get to shore;
for, lower down, before it reached the rapids, the current ran horribly
smooth and strong, and here and there were jagged rocks just beneath the
surface.
Pages:
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26