It was as the Man from Clancey’s had said, no one had ever gone down Dog
Nose Rapids in the nighttime, and probably no one but Jenny Long would
have ventured it. Dingley had had no idea what a perilous task had been
set his rescuer. It was only when the angry roar of the great rapids
floated up-stream to them, increasing in volume till they could see the
terror of tumbling waters just below, and the canoe shot forward like a
snake through the swift, smooth current which would sweep them into the
vast caldron, that he realised the terrible hazard of the enterprise.
The moon was directly overhead when they drew upon the race of rocks
and fighting water and foam. On either side only the shadowed shore,
forsaken by the races which had hunted and roamed and ravaged here--not
a light, nor any sign of life, or the friendliness of human presence to
make their isolation less complete, their danger, as it were, shared
by fellow-mortals. Bright as the moon was, it was not bright enough for
perfect pilotage. Never in the history of white men had these rapids
been ridden at nighttime. As they sped down the flume of the deep,
irresistible current, and were launched into the trouble of rocks and
water, Jenny realised how great their peril was, and how different the
track of the waters looked at nighttime from daytime. Outlines seemed
merged, rocks did not look the same, whirlpools had a different vortex,
islands of stone had a new configuration. As they sped on, lurching,
jumping, piercing a broken wall of wave and spray like a torpedo,
shooting an almost sheer fall, she came to rely on a sense of intuition
rather than memory, for night had transformed the waters.
Not a sound escaped either. The man kept his eyes fixed on the woman;
the woman scanned the dreadful pathway with eyes deep-set and burning,
resolute, vigilant, and yet defiant too, as though she had been trapped
into this track of danger, and was fighting without great hope, but
with the temerity and nonchalance of despair. Her arms were bare to the
shoulder almost, and her face was again and again drenched; but second
succeeded second, minute followed minute in a struggle which might well
turn a man’s hair grey, and now, at last-how many hours was it since
they had been cast into this den of roaring waters!--at last, suddenly,
over a large fall, and here smooth waters again, smooth and untroubled,
and strong and deep. Then, and only then, did a word escape either;
but the man had passed through torture and unavailing regret, for he
realised that he had had no right to bring this girl into such a fight.
It was not her friend who was in danger at Bindon. Her life had been
risked without due warrant. “I didn’t know, or I wouldn’t have asked
it,” he said in a low voice. “Lord, but you are a wonder--to take that
hurdle for no one that belonged to you, and to do it as you’ve done it.
This country will rise to you.” He looked back on the raging rapids far
behind, and he shuddered. “It was a close call, and no mistake. We must
have been within a foot of down-you-go fifty times. But it’s all right
now, if we can last it out and git there.” Again he glanced back,
then turned to the girl. “It makes me pretty sick to look at it,” he
continued. “I bin through a lot, but that’s as sharp practice as I
want.”
“Come here and let me bind up your arm,” she answered. “They hit
you--the sneaks! Are you bleeding much?”
He came near her carefully, as she got the big canoe out of the current
into quieter water. She whipped the scarf from about her neck, and with
his knife ripped up the seam of his sleeve. Her face was alive with
the joy of conflict and elated with triumph. Her eyes were shining. She
bathed the wound--the bullet had passed clean through the fleshy part
of the arm--and then carefully tied the scarf round it over her
handkerchief.
“I guess it’s as good as a man could do it,” she said at last.
“As good as any doctor,” he rejoined.
“I wasn’t talking of your arm,” she said.
“‘Course not. Excuse me. You was talkin’ of them rapids, and I’ve got to
say there ain’t a man that could have done it and come through like you.
I guess the man that marries you’ll get more than his share of luck.”
“I want none of that,” she said sharply, and picked up her paddle again,
her eyes flashing anger.
He took a pistol from his pocket and offered it to her. “I didn’t mean
any harm by what I said. Take this if you think I won’t know how to
behave myself,” he urged.
She flung up her head a little. “I knew what I was doing before I
started,” she said. “Put it away. How far is it, and can we do it in
time?”
“If you can hold out, we can do it; but it means going all night and all
morning; and it ain’t dawn yet, by a long shot.”
Dawn came at last, and the mist of early morning, and the imperious and
dispelling sun; and with mouthfuls of food as they drifted on, the two
fixed their eyes on the horizon beyond which lay Bindon. And now it
seemed to the girl as though this race to save a life or many lives
was the one thing in existence. To-morrow was to-day, and the white
petticoat was lying in the little house in the mountains, and her
wedding was an interminable distance off, so had this adventure drawn
her into its risks and toils and haggard exhaustion.
Eight, nine, ten, eleven o’clock came, and then they saw signs of
settlement. Houses appeared here and there upon the banks, and now and
then a horseman watched them from the shore, but they could not pause.
Bindon--Bindon--Bindon--the Snowdrop Mine at Bindon, and a death-dealing
machine timed to do its deadly work, were before the eyes of the two
voyageurs.
Half-past eleven, and the town of Bindon was just beyond them. A quarter
to twelve, and they had run their canoe into the bank beyond which were
the smokestacks and chimneys of the mine. Bindon was peacefully pursuing
its way, though here and there were little groups of strikers who had
not resumed work.
Dingley and the girl scrambled up the bank. Trembling with fatigue, they
hastened on. The man drew ahead of her, for she had paddled for fifteen
hours, practically without ceasing, and the ground seemed to rise up at
her. But she would not let him stop.
He hurried on, reached the mine, and entered, shouting the name of his
friend. It was seven minutes to twelve.
A moment later, a half-dozen men came rushing from that portion of the
mine where Dingley had been told the machine was placed, and at their
head was Lawson, the man he had come to save.
The girl hastened on to meet them, but she grew faint and leaned against
a tree, scarce conscious. She was roused by voices.
“No, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t me that done it; it was a girl. Here she
is--Jenny Long! You got to thank her, Jake.”
Jake! Jake! The girl awakened to full understanding now. Jake--what
Jake? She looked, then stumbled forward with a cry.
“Jake--it was my Jake!” she faltered. The mine-boss caught her in his
arms. “You, Jenny! It’s you that’s saved me!”
Suddenly there was a rumble as of thunder, and a cloud of dust and stone
rose from the Snowdrop Mine. The mine-boss tightened his arm round the
girl’s waist. “That’s what I missed, through him and you, Jenny,” he
said.
“What was you doing here, and not at Selby, Jake?” she asked.
“They sent for me-to stop the trouble here.”
“But what about our wedding to-day?” she asked with a frown.
“A man went from here with a letter to you three days ago,” he said,
“asking you to come down here and be married. I suppose he got drunk,
or had an accident, and didn’t reach you. It had to be. I was needed
here--couldn’t tell what would happen.”
“It has happened out all right,” said Dingley, “and this’ll be the end
of it. You got them miners solid now. The strikers’ll eat humble pie
after to-day.”
“We’ll be married to-day, just the same,” the mine-boss said, as he gave
some brandy to the girl.
But the girl shook her head. She was thinking of a white petticoat in a
little house in the mountains. “I’m not going to be married to-day,” she
said decisively.
“Well, to-morrow,” said the mine-boss.
But the girl shook her head again. “To-day is tomorrow,” she answered.
“You can wait, Jake. I’m going back home to be married.”