She wasn't a creek, she was a river; no, she wasn't a river, she was a rearing, roaring, raging torrent, owing to the rains and floods that had filled the banks to overflowing.
And this wasn't the worst of it.

Where was Cal Smith's ranch, a mile this side of the Zumbro?
The driver had told him about that, so it couldn't have been another of Bill Jordan's jokes.

Whitey looked back, and saw a line of hills, and realized that the ranch lay behind them, and that he had passed it.

And sorrowfully he retraced his steps.
They say that the last mile of a long walk is the worst, and it certainly proved so in this case, for it was dark when Whitey turned off into a side road and the lights of Cal Smith's ranch house met his view.
There may have been more welcome sights to Whitey than the yellow gleams of those window lights, but he could not remember them, as he limped toward the house.

Even the sharp barking of a dog, that was stilled by a call from an opening door, sounded good to him.