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Show 85 if it goes through any more rapids." "I will split-up," Tip exclaimed. I looked around. The river was strewn with timber and wreckage. Stampeders crouched on rocks and huddled on the shore. According to the map, it was about two miles before the Whitehorse Rapids. I hoped I could beach the raft before then. I discovered my rope had washed overboard along with the stove. And the steering pole and oars. In desperation I untied a rope from the supplies which were still held down securely. I made a lasso, and whirled it at projecting rocks near the shore. I missed. I called frantically to other boatmen, but they gestured helplessly. They, too, were at the mercy of the river. Then I saw the Whitehorse Rapids-spraying white foam fifteen feet into the sky. They looked like wild, leaping white stallions. At that moment, for some unknown reason, the rapids beckoned to me. I had no desire to beach the raft. I van ted to plunge into the middle of those wild white horses and ride them to the finish. "Hold on, Tip," I shouted. "We're going through!" Our raft was carried by the white horses, first on one back, then another. Sometimes we faced upstream, sometimes down. We were at the mercy of the frothing white steeds. I saw the white boulder on the right just before we hit it, but there was nothing I could do. I heard the loud cracking of logs and the snapping of rope. And I wondered how fast I could |