was going--north, and still farther north; a hundred miles, five
hundred, a thousand--and then another thousand before the last of
the scows unburdened itself of its precious freight. For the lean
and brown-visaged men who went with them there would be many
months of clean living and joyous thrill under the open skies.
Overwhelmed by the yearning that swept over him, Kent leaned back
against his pillows and covered his eyes.

In those moments his brain painted for him swiftly and vividly the
things he was losing. Tomorrow or next day he would be dead, and
the river brigade would still be sweeping on--on into the Grand
Rapids of the Athabasca, fighting the Death Chute, hazarding
valiantly the rocks and rapids of the Grand Cascade, the
whirlpools of the Devil's Mouth, the thundering roar and boiling
dragon teeth of the Black Run--on to the end of the Athabasca, to
the Slave, and into the Mackenzie, until the last rock-blunted
nose of the outfit drank the tide-water of the Arctic Ocean. And
he, James Kent, would be DEAD!

He uncovered his eyes, and there was a wan smile on his lips as he
looked forth once more. There were sixteen scows in the brigade,
and the biggest, he knew, was captained by Pierre Rossand. He
could fancy Pierre's big red throat swelling in mighty song, for
Pierre's wife was waiting for him a thousand miles away. The scows
were caught steadily now in the grip of the river, and it seemed
to Kent, as he watched them go, that they were the last fugitives
fleeing from the encroaching monsters of steel. Unconscious of the
act, he reached out his arms, and his soul cried out its farewell,
even though his lips were silent.