here could be no
death so dreadful but that to let his spirit cower before his
adversary would be tenfold worse. Helpless though he was, in a
position that was ignominiously and grotesquely horrible, and with the
imminence of an appalling doom close before his eyes, his nerve never
failed him. With cool contempt and defiance he met Red Pichot's
smile.

"I've always had an idee," said the half-breed, presently, in a smooth
voice that penetrated the mighty vibrations of the falls, "ez how a
chap on a log could paddle roun' this yere eddy fer a deuce of a while
afore he'd hev to git sucked out into the sluice!"

As a theory this was undoubtedly interesting. But Henderson made no
answer.

"I've held that idee," continued Pichot, after a civil pause, "though
I hain't never yet found a man, nor a woman nuther, as was willin' to
give it a fair trial. But I feel sure ye're the man to oblige me. I've
left yer arms kinder free, leastways from the elbows down, an' yer
legs also, more or less, so's ye'll be able to paddle easy-like. The
walls of the pot's all worn so smooth, below high-water mark, there's
nothin' to ketch on to, so there'll be nothin' to take off yer
attention. I'm hopin' ye'll give the matter a right fair trial. But ef
ye gits tired an' feels like givin' up, why, don't consider my
feelin's. There's the falls awaitin'. An' I ain't agoin' to bear no
grudge ef ye don't quite come up to my expectations of ye."

As Pichot ceased his measured harangue he jerked his pike-pole loose.
Instantly the log began to forge forward, joining the reluctant
procession. For a few moments Henderson felt like shutting his eyes
and his teeth and letting himself go on with all speed to the
inevitable doom. Then, with scorn of the weak impulse, he changed his
mind. To the last gasp he would maintain his hold on life, and give
fortune a chance to save him. When he could no longer resist, then it
would be Fate's responsibility, not his. The better to fight the awful
fight that was before him, he put clear out of his mind the picture of
Red Pichot and Mitchell perched on the brink above, smoking, and
grinning down upon the writhings of their victim. In a moment, as his
log drew near the cleft, he had forgotten them. There was room now in
all his faculties for but one impulse, one consideration.

The log to which he was bound was on the extreme outer edge of the
procession, and Henderson realized that there was every probability of
its