looking at him, but beyond. She
was looking back in the direction from which they had come, and even as
he stared her face grew white.

"_Listen_!"

She was tense, rigid. He turned his head. And in that moment it came to
him above the growing murmur of the river--the _putt, putt, putt_ of the
Police patrol boat from Athabasca Landing!

A deep breath came from between his lips. When Marette took her eyes
from the river and looked at him, his face was like carven rock. He was
staring dead ahead.

"We can't make the Chute," he said, his voice sounding hard and unreal
to her. "If we do, they'll be up with us before we can land at the
other end. We must let this current drive us ashore--_now_."

As he made his decision, he put the strength of his body into action.
He knew there was not the hundredth part of a second to lose. The
outreaching suction of the rapids was already gripping the scow, and
with mighty strokes he fought to work the head of his craft toward the
westward shore. With swift understanding Marette saw the priceless
value of a few seconds of time. If they were caught in the stronger
swirl of the rapids before the shore was reached, they would be forced
to run the Chute, and in that event the launch would be upon them
before they could make a landing farther on. She sprang to Kent's side
and added her own strength in the working of the sweep. Foot by foot
and yard by yard the scow made precious westing, and Kent's face
lighted up with triumph as he nodded ahead to a timbered point that
thrust itself out like a stubby thumb into the river. Beyond that point
the rapids were frothing white, and they could see the first black
walls of rock that marked the beginning of the Chute.

"We'll make it," he smiled confidently. "We'll hit that timbered point
close inshore. I don't see where the launch can make a landing anywhere
within a mile of the Chute. And once ashore we'll make trail about five
times as fast they can follow it." Marette's face was no longer pale,
but flushed with excitement. He caught the white gleam of teeth between
her parted lips. Her eyes shone gloriously, and he laughed.

"You beautiful little fighter," he cried exultantly. "You--you--"

His words were cut short by a snap that was like the report of a pistol
close to his ears. He pitched forward and crashed to the bottom of the
scow, Marette's slim body clutched in his arms as he fell. In a flash
they were up, and mutely they stared whe