AT WHITE HORSE RAPIDS.
"We're doing well," observed Tim McCabe, when the raft with its load
and party of gold-seekers reached the end of Lynx River, "but be the
same token, we're drawing nigh the worst part of the voyage, and we'll
be lucky if we git through the same without mishap."
"What have we ahead?" asked Jeff.
"Miles Cañon; it's a little more than half a mile long, and if this
raft isn't as strong as it should be it'll be torn to pieces."
Fortunately Jeff had given attention from the first to the stability of
the structure, upon which everything depended. He was continually
examining it from stem to stern, and where there was a suspicion of the
necessity, he drove nails and strengthened the craft in every way
possible.
The sail was used whenever possible; but since they were really among
the network of lakes which form the headwaters of the Yukon, the
current carried them steadily toward their destination, and there were
hours when they scarcely lifted their hands except to keep the raft in
proper position by means of the poles. The weather grew steadily
milder, for summer was approaching. The snow and ice rapidly melted,
and now and then, when the sun shone, the thick clothing felt
uncomfortable during the middle of the day. Our friends were in advance
of the great multitude that were pushing toward the Klondike from the
south, from Canada and to St. Michael's, whence they would start on the
two-thousand-mile climb of the Yukon, as soon as it shook off its icy
bounds.
It was impossible that the party should not view with solicitude their
entrance into Miles Cañon, though Tim assured his friends that much
more dangerous rapids would remain to be passed. The cañon is
five-eighths of a mile long, with an angry and swift current. Although
the raft was tossed about like a cockleshell, it went through without
injury, and none of the goods were displaced or harmed.
Following this came the severest kind of work. For three miles it
seemed as if the river could be no worse, and the raft must be wrenched
asunder. The current was not only very swift, but the channel was
filled with rocks. Each man grasped one of the strong poles with which
the craft was provided, and wrought with might and main to steer clear
of the treacherous masses of stone which thrust up their heads
everywhere. There were many narrow escapes, and despite the utmost they
could do, the raft struck repeatedly. Sometimes it was a bump and sheer
to one side so suddenly that the party were almost knocked off their
feet. Once, owing to unintentional contrary work the raft banged
against the head of a rock and stood still. While the men were
desperately plying their poles the current slewed the craft around, and
the voyage was resumed.
[Illustration: THE CURRENT WAS NOT ONLY VERY SWIFT, BUT THE CHANNEL
WAS FILLED WITH ROCKS.]
"Look out!" shouted Jeff; "there's another rock right ahead!"
Unfortunately it was just below the surface, and there were so many
ripples and eddies in the current that neither Tim nor Hardman was sure
of its exact location, but taking their cue from the leader, they
pushed with all their strength to clear the obstruction.
They failed, and the flinty head swept directly under the logs and
gouged its course for the entire length of the craft. All felt the jar,
and those who could look beneath the upper deck saw the lower timbers
rise from the impact, which was so severe that when the raft at last
swung free it was barely moving, but, like a wounded horse, it shook
itself clear, and the next moment was plunging forward as impetuously
as ever. The fears of the party were intensified by sight of wreckage
along the banks, proving that more than one of their predecessors had
come to grief in trying to make the passage.
While all were on edge with the danger, however, they found themselves
at the end of the perilous passage and floating in comparatively smooth
water again. Men and boys drew sighs of relief, the former mopping
their perspiring brows and looking their mutual congratulations.
"The fun is only just begun," said Tim McCabe; "we had matters purty
lively fur a time, but they'll soon be a good deal livelier."
"What is next due?" asked Frank.
"I belave," said Tim, "that some folks spake of death as riding on a
pale horse, don't they?"
"Yes."
"That must be the raison they call the nixt plisure thramp White Horse
Cañon, or White Horse Rapids."
"Where are they?"
"But a little way ahid; many men have been drowned in thrying to sail
through the same; and him as doesn't know how to swim in a whirlpool
hasn't ony business to thry it."
"What, then, do you mean to do?"
"Thry it," was the imperturbable response.
Such talk was not calculated to cheer the listeners, but knowing the
Irishman as they did, they received his statement with less seriousness
than they should have done, for he had by no means overrated the peril
in their front. Jeff made another examination of the raft while he had
the opportunity, and strengthened it in every possible way. He was
pleased that it stood the test so well, though it had been severely
wrenched, and when it crawled over the sunken rock it had narrowly
missed being torn asunder. The fastenings of the goods were examined
and everything prepared, so far as it could be done, for the crucial
trial at hand.
The party were seated in various positions about the raft, looking
anxiously ahead, when Tim pointed a little way in advance, with the
question:
"Do ye all obsarve that?"
He indicated a high bank of sand on the right which had been cut out by
the erosion of the violent current. Near by some philanthropist had put
up a sign, "Keep a Good Look Out."
"You have larned what other people think of the same," he added;
"there's been more than twinty men drowned in there."
"Because they could not swim?" asked Frank.
"'Cause the best swimmer in the world can't swim in there; you and
mesilf, boys, will soon be on the same futting, for the raison that we
won't have any futting at all."
"How long is the cañon?"
"Not quite half a mile. Miles Cañon, that we've just passed through, is
like a duck-pond alongside the rapids in front of us."
"Can a boat go through?"
"The thing has been done, but only about one in fifty that starts into
them rapids ever raiches the outlet, excipt in bits the size of yer
hand."
Frank and Roswell looked at each other in consternation. Was it
possible that Jeff would allow the criminal recklessness Tim
contemplated? Where the chances were so overwhelmingly against success,
it was throwing away their lives to trust themselves to the fearful
rapids that had already caused so many deaths.
"If you want to try," said Roswell, excitedly, "you may do so, but
neither Frank nor I will. Put us ashore!"
He addressed himself to Jeff, who was seated on the edge of the upper
deck, calmly smoking his pipe. He did not look around nor seem to hear
the appeal.
"Never mind," interposed Frank; "if they are willing, we are not the
ones to back out. I know of no law that prevents a man making a fool of
himself."
"Very well," replied his cousin, more composedly, "I am ready."