As for Faye, her thoughts were all for the little brown people who had put so boldly out into the racing white waters with only a slender cord to save them from certain destruction.
As the teams and sleds with their clinging human freight were caught by the flood, they swung squarely about, facing upstream. It was then that the little brown huskies proved themselves true heroes. Beaten back, carried off their feet, buffeted at, half drowned by the racing torrent, these dogs kept their small feet going at a feverish rate.
Had it not been for these many pairs of little brown feet, each doing its bit, there can be no doubt but that the rawhide rope must have snapped. As it was, it held and like a great pendulum, dogs, sleds, men and cord swung slowly, surely across the racing peril.
Faye’s heart stood still as, pausing at the point where they must arrive, if indeed they were to arrive at all, she caught the slow sweep that was bearing them on.
Would they make it? Could they? Would the little brown beasts give up in despair? Would the rope part?
Now they were a quarter way across, and now a half. Here at the very heart of the torrent, they appeared to hang suspended.
“They do not move,” she breathed.
And yet, yes, yes, they must be moving. A tree on the opposite bank, hidden ten seconds before, was visible now.
Of a sudden fresh peril appeared. Beneath the water was winter ice that had not yet thawed. Loosing its grip, a broad cake of this rose suddenly to the surface. Twenty yards above the drifting band it appeared about to ram them, to snap their support, to overturn their sleds and send them to the bottom.
But again, as if an invisible hand had reached down to shove them forward, the pendulum swung faster. The ice, missing them, raced harmlessly on.