Towards night they fell in with some boats from the Ohio, and when Davy wanted to make a landing, and tried without success to stop at the river’s banks, the Ohio boatmen shouted to him to keep on and run all night. He didn’t want then to “go ahead,” but there was no other way. The clumsy craft were always trying to butt into trouble. Sawyers, and planters, and sand-bars, and right-about curves of the channel, were forcing the crew to superhuman exertions, partly because they trusted to main strength without skill. Soon after they gave up trying to land, they came to a place called “The Devil’s Elbow.” Here Davy says he had the hardest work of his life. He twice attempted to land at Wood-yards, but could not. The people on shore tried to guide them with lights, and shouted to direct their efforts, but the boats were too heavy to manage, and finally the exhausted crew gave up the fight, and let the river sweep them along at will. Davy was sitting by the stove in the cabin of one of the boats, thinking of what a “hobble” he had got himself into, and how much better bear-hunting was than being on the water, where he had to go ahead, whether he wanted to or not, when he heard some one walking slowly back and forth on the deck above him, and he went up the companionway to see who it was. The boats were sweeping along through the dark, and, in spite of attempts to steer, the crew were really trusting to a merciful Providence. The uneasy mortal for whom Davy was looking proved to be Uncle Julius, the darky cook. “What’s the matter, Uncle?” Davy said. “Can’t you sleep?” “’Deed I can’t, Mars Davy,” was the doleful reply. “De squinch-owls an’ de hoot-owls makin’ a heap er noise on de sho’, an’ de wolves is howlin’ like de ha’nts bin after ’um. ’Pears like I’s so oneasy I can’t keep still fer thinkin’ er de time w’en de crawfishes bo’ed de holes in de groun’, en all de animiles an’ de folkses, ’ceppin Noer en his critters, went down ter de bottom, kerblunkity-blink. I ain’ much fer whimplin’ erroun’, but I’s mighty juberous ’bout dis yere kin’ er sailin’, and wen you says I can’t sleep, Mars Dave, yo’ sho’s knockin’ at de back do’.” Davy said a word to cheer up the old darky, then looked about him before going below. The ripple of the water against the sides of the boats was like the wash of waves on an unknown coast. From the tall buttonwood and cottonwood trees upon the shore came the “Hoo! Hoo! Too Whoo! Hoo! Hoo! Too Whoo!” that stirred the superstition of the darky’s nature. The tremulous cry of the ’coon, the howling of a wolf, and the bay of a hound, floated out across the muddy stream; then there came a sudden splashing of the water ahead, and a flock of ducks flew away with loud and angry clamor. From overhead the wild-geese call was like the far-away blast of a trumpet blown by spirits of the air. The wind was chill, and there was nothing a bear-hunter could do, so Davy went below again, but not to sleep.