“We must trust God, and go.”
“But how?”
The Indians answered this question. Producing their bear skins they began cutting willows.
“We make skin boat,” they said. “Tie wood together so; stretch skin so; sew it this way; not leak. Very good boat. Ride water. Ice not break. Very strong. Very good.”
“Wonderful!” said Gordon Duncan. “God sent you to us.”
“Eh-eh, the Great Spirit,” said the Indian.
Late that afternoon, in a boat that might have been made by some primitive man three thousand years before, they glided from the shore and away through the water that ran above the surface of six foot ice which, soon enough, would rise and go booming and crowding and grinding toward the sea.
Faye’s heart missed a beat as she took her place in the prow. They were facing grave dangers. Would this be her last ride?
And yet it was to be a race, a race between a raft and a skin boat on a turbulent river. Races are always thrilling. Soon her nerves were all a-tingle.