Isaac Bellew, and all the other Bellews, had done things like this
in their westward march of empire. What they had done, he could do.
It was the meat, the strong meat, and he knew, as never before, that
it required strong men to eat such meat.

"You've sure got to keep the top of the ridge," Shorty shouted at
him, the plug tobacco lifting to his mouth, as the boat quickened in
the quickening current and took the head of the rapids.

Kit nodded, swayed his strength and weight tentatively on the
steering oar, and headed the boat for the plunge.

Several minutes later, half-swamped and lying against the bank in
the eddy below the White Horse, Shorty spat out a mouthful of
tobacco juice and shook Kit's hand.

"Meat! Meat!" Shorty chanted. "We eat it raw! We eat it alive!"

At the top of the bank they met Breck. His wife stood at a little
distance. Kit shook his hand.

"I'm afraid your boat can't make it," he said. "It is smaller than
ours and a bit cranky."

The man pulled out a row of bills.

"I'll give you each a hundred if you run it through."

Kit looked out and up the tossing Mane of the White Horse. A long,
gray twilight was falling, it was turning colder, and the landscape