When he got there he found that Rea had taken it down and awaited him.

"Off!" said the free-trader; and with no more noise than a drifting feather the boat swung into the current and glided down till the twinkling fires no longer accentuated the darkness.
By night the river, in common with all swift rivers, had a sullen voice, and murmured its hurry, its restraint, its menace, its meaning.
The two boat-men, one at the steering gear, one at the oars, faced the pelting rain and watched the dim, dark line of trees.

The craft slid noiselessly onward into the gloom.
And into Jones's ears, above the storm, poured another sound, a steady, muffled rumble, like the roll of giant chariot wheels.

It had come to be a familiar roar to him, and the only thing which, in his long life of hazard, had ever sent the cold, prickling, tight shudder over his warm skin.

Many times on the Athabasca that rumble had presaged the dangerous and dreaded rapids.
"Hell Bend Rapids!" shouted Rea.