INTO THE WILDERNESS
Hanky’s mare, after being cooped up in a stable for a week without exercise, stretched its neck to the fresh air, and under the urging heels of Jim killed space at a remarkable rate. Mounting an almost perpendicular hill, Jim saw the Silas P. Young beating down-stream, a mile or two ahead, at a steady ten knots.
He made queer noises with his lips and his mount responded instantly, leaping with distended nostrils over stone and hummocks, like a piece of live steel. To be on a horse again was glorious. Instantly his form had merged with the animal’s—they moved as one creature, raising dust and moss as they thundered down the river.
The boat turned a corner and was lost to view for a few minutes, but a mile lower down he saw 172 it again, with a creamy wake streaming behind it. He was nearer now and going strong. He pressed his hand over the glossy neck of the horse and crooned to it.
“Gee, yore some hoss—you beaut! The man that lays whip on your flanks oughter be shot. We’re gaining, honey. Another league and we’ll be putting it over that ’honking’ bunch of machinery. Stead-dee!”
The thundering pace was maintained. Uphill, downhill, on the flat, it was all the same. Heels were no longer necessary. The horse understood that the big “horse-man” wanted to get somewhere in quick time, and meant to see him through.
Twenty minutes later they were abreast of the Silas P. Young. Then they shot into a deep gully and were lost among a thick forest of spruce-trees. For two miles horse and man evaded low-hanging branches and treacherous footfalls, until the timber thinned and the straggling Yukon came again to view. Away up-stream was the steamboat, crawling down by the near bank. There was no time to be lost if Angela’s escape was to be frustrated. He 173 tethered his foam-flecked mount to a tree and crept down the steep bank. The muddied water swirled along at a ramping five knots—a vile-looking cocoa-colored mass that was scarcely inviting to any swimmer. He raised his hands and dived down.
With a powerful over-arm stroke he made for the line which the steamboat was following. In that wide welter of water the bobbing head would in all probability be lost to view, or any kind of shout would be drowned by the clanking noise of the paddle-wheels. The extreme danger of the exploit was not lost upon him, but the resolve, once rooted, stuck fast.
He looked up and saw the Silas P. Young bearing down on him, her squat nose setting her course in dead line with his eyes. Treading water, he waited for the psychological moment. The chief danger lay in the vicinity of the paddle-wheel. To be caught up in that meant certain death. He resolved to fetch the boat as near the bows as possible and on the port side.
He heard a bell ring twice, and then to his horror the boat changed her course. It was barely two hundred yards away, and bore 174 straight down on him. He dived and swam for his life to avoid direct impact.... At that moment a man saw him and yelled out something to the Captain. The latter peered over the side, but saw nothing.