The drift was too light to hold their anchor although two trials at
this were made. Not a bush or tree was to be found nearby. In
despair at last, Alan was about to suggest opening the valve--for it
was imperative that they secure the gasoline--when Ned turned the
bow of the craft down stream.
"Perhaps we can find anchorage further down," he explained.
"But if will be pretty hard work carrying these tins," Alan began.
"They floated where they are, didn't they?" smiled Ned. "What's the
matter with letting them float a little further?"
His hope was realized. But the solution was fully a mile away. On
a sandy bar, half buried in the sand, the stout end of a cottonwood
trunk, the flotsam of some extraordinary freshet, had come into
view. The experience of the morning was repeated, but on a smaller
scale, for here were no dangerous tree limbs to threaten their
delicate silken bag. After two trials and much pulling and hauling
the car of the Cibola was tied fast to the snag, half over the
shallow water and half over the sand.
Then, naked as when they were born, and suffering not a little from
the pitiless sun, the boys started afresh.
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