Suddenly, as though endowed with a fiendish intelligence, the blazing
fabric took a sheer to port, and headed for the skiff. A hoarse cry
broke from the old negro, whose face was ashen gray with fright. It
was echoed by Binney Gibbs. The others kept silence, but their faces
were bloodless.
By a mighty effort Billy Brackett spun the skiff around, and with the
energy of despair pulled back towards the raft. The stout oars bent
like whips. If one of them had given way nothing could have saved our
raftmates from destruction. Had the tough blades been of other than
home make, and fashioned from the best product of the Caspar Mill, they
must have yielded. With each stroke Billy Brackett rose slightly from
his seat. Arms, body, and legs made splendid response to the demands
of the invincible will. Years of careful training and right living
were concentrated into that supreme moment. Another might have sought
personal safety by plunging overboard and diving deep into the river.
Glen and Winn might have followed such an example. Binney and Solon,
being unable to swim, could not. But Billy Brackett was too true an
American to consider such a thing for an instant. Generations of
Yankee ancestors had taught him never to desert a friend nor yield to a
foe; never to court a danger nor to fear one; to fight in a righteous
cause with his latest breath; to snatch victory from defeat.
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