With aid of a hardwood lever, he managed to get both his logs afloat in the deep pool at whose edge they lay. Waist deep he waded, binding his logs together with a length of grapevine, which he tore from a nearby tree. He found here and there some bits of boards, flotsam and jetsam of the stream, and on these, spread crosswise, he laid bits of brush, making a little mound midships of his craft. When presently he had found a twelve-foot pole for guiding oar, he had done his work in building himself a boat. He stepped aboard it with the confidence of the river man. He knew the stream would carry him three, four or five miles an hour, sometimes six miles, in its more rapid reaches. He advanced, bend after bend, through a beautiful panorama of flame-decked river banks now gilded by the failing sun. He heard sometimes the bells of wandering cattle, now and again the lowing of a cow, the neighing of a horse; and saw by the river banks many a home of a mountaineer who had settled here none might say when. But the eyes of David Joslin were not for these things. It was sunset when the hurrying flood of the river brought him to the mouth of that other tributary in whose valley he himself had dwelt all these years. Here was the confluence of the two main forks of the Kentucky. He knew every house of the little village at the forks, every feature of the hills, which rose about the village on either side. He swung straight past, on the bosom of the rising and augmented river, his craft swimming steadily enough under his accustomed guidance. He scarce saw the little houses, their smoke rising for the evening meal. It was something more which came to his gaze as he traveled here. He saw, or thought he saw—it might have been but the ragged heads of thunder clouds beyond the rim of the hills—the roofs and stacks of buildings—not one, but many buildings. They sat there on the hill that rose above the town—yes, he was sure of it. There were many of them—there was a city of them! Yonder on the hill there stood again visualized the thing which he had dreamed! It was but a vision, caught for an instant as the yellow flood of the river swept him on, but it was enough for David Joslin. A strange confidence came to him. He felt all the zeal of the old covenanters, the assurance that God was with him, and that his “calling” now was clear. But the Kentucky River, coming into full tide, mocked at a man who thought of anything else but things at hand. Joslin knew what was on ahead a few miles—the great Narrows of the Kentucky, fatal to many a raft and many a raftsman. Here, at the foot of a long reach of still water, lay a great rock dam, where the hillsides came close together. The river, narrowed and compressed, was flung furiously out over the rock ledge, to drop a certain distance, and then to curl up and back in a high white wave extending entirely across the stream—what the raftsmen always called the “king breaker” of the Narrows.