The great flooded river broadened until the line of water and horizon met, and Paul could easily fancy that they were floating on a boundless sea.

An uncommonly red sun was setting and here and there the bubbles were touched with fire.

Far in the west dark shadows were stealing up.
"Look," Henry suddenly exclaimed, "I think that the Spanish have gone into camp for the night!" He pointed down the stream and toward the western shore, where a thin spire of smoke was rising.
"It's that, certain," said Tom Ross, "an' I guess we'd better make fur camp, too." They pulled toward the eastern shore, in order that the river might be between them and the Spaniards during the night and soon reached a grove which stood many feet deep in the water.

As they passed under the shelter of the boughs they took another long look toward the spire of smoke.
Henry, who had the keenest eyes of all, was able to make out the dim outline of boats tied to the bank, and any lingering doubt that the Spaniards might not be there was dispelled.
"When they start in the morning we'll start, too," said Henry.
Then they pushed their boat further back into the grove.

Night was coming fast.