dry, running patter.

The man in front moved and looked ahead.

"We'd ought to be near there."

"A few yards over to the right," came the answer, and with it the boat
took a sharp turn to the left, nosing along the bank, then stole down a
waterway, a crystal channel between ramparts of green. This looped at a
right angle, shone with a sudden glaze of sun, slipped into shadow and,
rounding a point, an island with a bare, oozy edge came into view.

A deep stroke of the paddle sent the boat forward, its bow burrowing into
the mud, and Knapp jumped out and beached it. The place was a small
islet, one side clear, a wall of rushes, thick as grass, clothing the
other. Over the water line the earth was hard, its surface cracked and
flaked by the sun. On this open space lay two battered kerosene oil cans,
their tops torn away, and a pile of stones. The hiding place was not a
new one and the properties were already prepared.

With a knife and chisel they broke open the box. The money was in small
canvas sacks, clean as if never used before and marked with a stenciled
"W. F. & Co." They took it out and looked at it; hefted its weight in
their hands. It represented the first success after several failures, one
brought to trial, others frustrated in the making or abandoned after
warnings from the ranchers and obscure townsfolk who stood in with them.
Knapp had been discouraged. Now he took a handful and spread it on his
palm, golden eagles, heavy, shining, solid. Swaying his wrist, he let the
sun play on them, strike glints from their edges, burnish their surface.