On the edge of this, where the river swung to the southern limit of
the valley and ran under a cliff that lifted a thousand foot sheer, he
passed a small house. Smoke drifted blue from the stovepipe. A pile of
freshly chopped firewood lay by the door. The dressed carcass of a
deer hung under one projecting eave. Between two stumps a string of
laundered clothes waved in the down-river breeze. By the garments
Hollister knew a woman must be there. But none appeared to watch him
pass. He did not halt, although the short afternoon was merging into
dusk and he knew the hospitality of those who go into lonely places to
wrest a living from an untamed land. But he could not bear the thought
of being endured rather than welcomed. He had suffered enough of that.
He was in full retreat from just that attitude. He was growing afraid
of contact with people, and he knew why he was afraid.
When the long twilight was nearly spent, he gained the upper part of
the Big Bend and hauled his canoe out on the bank. A small flat ran
back to the mouth of a canyon, and through the flat trickled a stream
of clear water.
Pages:
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65