We had him like a rat in a trap, but his foxy eyes had seen us. He
sprang to his feet, hesitated for a fraction of a moment, saw the
murder in our faces, then did what any man but a fool would have
done--ran.
We were hot on his heels. Fifty yards distant an old dug-out lay
hauled up. He ran it down into the water, stared wildly at the
oncoming jam, then at us, sprang into the canoe and grabbed the
paddle.
I was murderously mad. I wheeled the axe above my shoulder and let
fly at him. It missed his head by three inches.
He was paddling for dear life now, and, our last chance gone, we
stood riveted to the spot, watching him. On the bluff across the
river stood his half-blood mother, the raw March wind whipping her
skirts about her knees; but her strained, ashen face showed she
never felt its chill. Below with his feet almost in the rapidly
rising water, stood the old missionary, his scant grey hair blowing
across his eyes that seemed to look out into eternity--amid stream
Tom, paddling with the desperation of death, his head turning every
second with the alertness of an animal to gauge the approaching
ice-shove.
Even I wished him life then. Twice I thought him caught in the
crush, but he was out of it like an arrow, and in another moment he
had leapt ashore while above the roar of the grinding jam I heard
him cry out with a strange exultation:
"Father, I've succeeded.
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