The huge log came tearing on, butt first, a
wave of troubled water split by its on-rush. Turner was watching
the person bringing him the axe, and never once threw a glance
over his shoulder.
Suddenly Nan cried out and seized Uncle Henry's arm. "Look! Oh,
Uncle! It's Rafe!" she gasped, pointing.
"Aye, I know it," said her uncle, wonderfully cool, Nan thought,
and casting a single glance at the figure flying over the bucking
logs toward the endangered foreman. "He'll do what he can."
Nan could not take her eyes from her cousin after that. It
seemed to be a race between Rafe and the charging log, to see
which should first reach the foreman. Rafe, reckless and
harebrained as he was, flew over the logs as sure-footed as a
goat. Nan felt faint. Her cousin's peril seemed far greater to
her than that of the foreman.
A step might plunge Rafe into the foaming stream! When a log
rolled under him she cried out under her breath and clamped her
teeth down on to her lower lip until the blood almost came.
"He'll be killed! He'll be killed!" she kept repeating in her
own mind. But Uncle Henry stood like a rock and seemingly gave
no more attention to his son than he did to Turner, or to the men
running down the bank to seize upon and launch the heavy boat.
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