I can't git to Bindon to-morrow in time, if I ride the
trail."
"The river?" she asked abruptly.
"It's the only way. It cuts off fifty mile. That's why I come to you."
She frowned a little, her face became troubled, and her glance fell on
his arm nervously. "What've I got to do with it?" she asked almost
sharply.
"Even if this was all right,"--he touched the wounded arm--" I couldn't
take the rapids in a canoe. I don't know them, an' it would be sure
death. That's not the worst, for there's a man at Bindon would lose his
life--p'r'aps twenty men--I dunno; but one man sure. To-morrow, it's go
or stay with him. He was good--Lord, but he was good!--to my little gal
years back. She'd only been married to me a year when he saved her,
riskin' his own life. No one else had the pluck. My little gal, only
twenty she was, an' pretty as a picture, an' me fifty miles away when the
fire broke out in the hotel where she was. He'd have gone down to hell
for a friend, an' he saved my little gal. I had her for five years after
that. That's why I got to git to Bindon to-morrow.
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