The Day of the Beast by Zane Grey

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All at once the boat grated on a rock, and his knees struck. He lay
there holding on while life and sense seemed to return. Something
black and awful retreated. Then the rush and roar of the rapids was
again about him. He saw that he had drifted into a back eddy behind
the ledge of rock, and had whirled slowly round and round with a
miscellaneous collection of driftwood.

Lane steadied himself on the slippery ledge and got to his feet. The
boat was half full of water, out of which Swarm's ghastly face
protruded. By dint of great effort Lane pulled it sideways on the
ledge, and turned most of the water out.

Swann lay limp and sodden. But for his eyes he would have appeared
dead, and they shone with a conscious light of terror, of passionate
appeal and hope, the look with which a man prayed for his life.
Presently his lips moved imperceptibly. "Save me! for God's sake, save
me!"

Shuddering emotion that had the shock of electricity shook Lane. In
his ears again rang the sullen, hollow, reverberating boom of the
flood. Here was the man who had done most to harm him, begging to be
saved. Swann, poor wretch, was afraid to die; he feared the unknown;
he had a terror of that seething turmoil of waters; he could not face
the end of that cold ride. Why?

"Fool!" Lane cried, glaring wildly about him. Was it another dream?
Unreality swayed him again. He heard the roar, he saw the splitting
white-crested waves, the clouds of yellow vapor. He beat his numb legs
and shook himself like a savage dog. Then he made a discovery--in some
way he could not account for, the oars had remained in the boat. They
had been loose in their oar-locks.

Questions formed in Lane's mind, questions that seemed put by a
dawning significance. Why had he heard the cry for help? Why had he
found the boat? Why had the drowning man proved to be one of two men
on earth he hated, one of the two men whom he wanted to kill? Why had
he drifted into the rapids? Why had he come safely through a vortex of
death? Why had Swann's lips formed that prayer? Why had the oars
remained in the boat?

Far below over the choppy sea of waves he saw a bridge. It was his old
familiar resting place. Through the white enveloping glow he seemed to
see himself standing on that bridge. Then came to him a strange
revelation. Yesterday he had stood on that bridge, after seeing Blair
for the last time. He had stood there while he lived through an hour
of the keenest anguish that had come to him; and in that agony he had
watched the plunging river. He had watched it with eyes that could
never forget. His mind, exquisitely alive, with the sensibility of a
plexus of racked and broken nerves, had taken up every line, every
channel and stone and rapid of that flood, and had engraved them in
ineffaceable characters. With the unintelligible vagary of thought,
while his breast seemed crushed, his heart broken, he had imagined
himself adrift on that surging river, and he had planned his escape
through the rapids.

As Lane stood on the ledge, knee-deep in the water, with the certainty
that he had a perfect photograph of the field of tumbling waters below
in his mind's eye, a strange voice seemed to whisper in his ear.

_"This is your great trial!"_

Without further hesitation he shoved the boat off the ledge.

Round and round the back eddy he floated. At the outlet on the
down-stream side, where the gleaming line of foam marked the escape of
water into the on-rushing current, he whirled his boat, stern ahead.
Down he shot with a plunge and then up with a rise. Racing on over
the uneven swells he felt the hissing spray, and the malignant tips of
the waves that broke their fury on the boat and expended it in a
shower of stinging drops. The wind cut his face. He rode a sea of
foam, then turgid rolling mounds of water that heaved him up and up,
and down long planes that laughed with hollow boom, then into channels
of smooth current, where the torrent wreathed the black stones in
yellowish white.

Lane saw the golden sun, the blue sky, the fleecy clouds, the red and
purple of the colored hills; and felt his chest expand with the
mounting glory of great effort. The muscles of his back and arms,
strengthened by the long toil with his heavy axe, rippled and swelled
and burned, and stretched like rubber cords, and strung tight like
steel bands. The boat was a toy.

He rodes the waves, and threaded a labyrinth of ugly stones, and shot
an unobstructed channel, and evaded a menacing drift. The current
carried him irresistibly onward. When his keen eye caught danger ahead
he sunk the oars deep and pulled back. A powerful stroke made the boat
pause, another turned her bow to the right or left, then the swift
water hitting her obliquely sheered her in the safe direction. So Lane
kept afloat through the spray that smelled fresh and dank, through the
crash and surge and roar and boom, through the boiling caldron.

The descent quickened. On! On! he was borne with increasing velocity.
The yellow demons rose in fury. Boo--oom! Boo--oom! The old river god
voiced his remorseless roar. The shrill screaming shriek of splitting
water on sharp stones cut into the boom. On! On! Into the yellow mist
that might have been smoke from hell streaked the boat, out upon a
curving billow, then down! down! upon an upheaving curl of frothy
water. The river, like a huge yellow mound, hurled its mass at Lane.
All was fog and steam and whistling spray and rumble.

At length the boat swept out into the open with a long plunge over the
last bit of roughened water. Here the current set in a curve to the
left, running off the rocky embankment into the natural channel of the
river. The dam was now only a couple of hundred yards distant. The
water was smooth and the drift had settled to a slow, ponderous,
sliding movement.

Lane pulled powerfully against the current and toward the right-hand
shore. That was closest. Besides, he remembered a long sluice at the
end of the dam where the water ran down as on a mill-race. If he could
row into that!

In front of Lane, extending some distance, was a broad unbroken
expanse of water leading to the dam. A tremendous roar issued from
that fall. The muddy spray and mist rose high. To drift over there
would be fatal. Logs and pieces of debris were kept rolling there for
hours before some vagary of current caught them and released them.

Lane calculated the distance with cunning eye. He had been an expert
boatman all his boyhood days. By the expenditure of his last bit of
reserve strength he could make the sluice. And he redoubled his
efforts to such an extent that the boat scarcely went down stream at
all, yet edged closer to the right hand shore. Lane saw a crowd of
people on the bridge below the dam. They were waving encouragement. He
saw men run down the steep river bank below the mill; and he knew they
were going to be ready to assist him if he were fortunate enough to
ride down the sluice into the shallow backwater on that side.

Rowing now with the most powerful of strokes, Lane kept the bow of the
boat upstream and a little to the right. Thus he gained more toward
the shore. But he must time the moment when it would be necessary to
turn sharply.

"I can--make--it," muttered Lane. He felt no excitement. The thing had
been given him to do. His strokes were swift, but there was no hurry.

Suddenly he felt a strange catching of breath in his lungs. He
coughed. Blood, warm and salt, welled up from his throat. Then his
bitter, strangled cry went out over the waters. At last he understood
the voices of the river.

Lane quickened his strokes. He swung the bow in. He pointed it
shoreward. Straight for the opening of the sluice! His last strokes
were prodigious. The boat swung the right way and shot into the
channel. Lane dropped his oars. He saw men below wading knee-deep in
the water. The boat rode the incline, down to the long swell and
curled yellow billows below, where it was checked with violent shock.
Lane felt himself propelled as if into darkness.

When Lane opened his eyes he recognized as through a veil the little
parlor of the Idens. All about him seemed dim and far away. Faces and
voices were there, indistinguishable. A dark cloud settled over his
eyes. He dreamed but could not understand the dreams. The black veil
came and went.

What was the meaning of the numbness of his body? The immense weight
upon his breast! Then it seemed he saw better, though he could not
move. Sunlight streamed in at the window. Outside were maple leaves,
gold and red and purple, swaying gently. Then a great roaring sound
seemed to engulf him. The rapids? The voice of the river.

Then Mel was there kneeling beside him. All save her face grew vague.

"Swann?" he whispered.

"You saved his life," said Mel.

"Ah!" And straightway he forgot. "Mel--what's--wrong--with me?"

Mel's face was like white marble and her hands on his trembled
violently. She could not answer. But he knew. There seemed to be a
growing shadow in the room. Her eyes held a terrible darkness.

"Mel, I--never told--you," he whispered. "I married you--because I
loved you.... But I was--jealous.... I hated.... I couldn't forgive.
I couldn't understand.... Now I know. There's a law no woman--can
transgress. Soul and love are the same--in a woman. They must be
inviolable.... If I could have lived--I'd have surrendered to you. For
I loved you--beyond words to tell. It was love that made me well....
But we could not have been happy. Never, with that spectre between
us.... And, so--it must be--always.... In spite of war--and wealth--in
spite of men--women must rise...."

His voice failed, and again the strange rush and roar enveloped him.
But it seemed internal, dimmer and farther away. Mel's face was
fading. She spoke. And her words were sweet, without meaning. Then the
fading grayness merged into night.

THE END

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