He ruled horses with a hard hand, he drove his dog teams with a biting lash, and he mastered women with a similar lack of feeling or consideration.
He was still talking when the girl sprang to her feet and sent a shrill cry out over the river, but instantly he was up and upon her, his hand over her mouth, while she tore at it, screaming the name of Poleon Doret.

He silenced her to a smothered, sobbing mumble, and turned to see, far out on the bosom of the great soiled river, a man in a bark canoe.

The craft had just swung past the bend above, and was still a long way off--so far away, in fact, that Necia's signal had not reached it, for its occupant held unwaveringly to the swiftest channel, his body rising and falling in the smooth, unending rhythm of a master-boatman tinder great haste, his arms up-flung now and then, as the paddle glinted and flashed across to the opposite side.
Runnion glanced about hurriedly, then cursed as he saw no place of concealment.

The Peterborough stood out upon the bar conspicuously, as did he and the girl; but the chance remained that this man, whoever he was, would pass by, for his speed was great, the river a mile in width, and the bend sharp.

Necia had cried Poleon's name, but her companion saw no resemblance to the Frenchman in this strange-looking voyager; in fact, he could not quite make out what was peculiar about the man--perhaps his eyes were not as sharp as hers--and then he saw that the boatman was naked to the waist.