Curly’s muscles strained as he threw every ounce of strength into the pull. The key log creaked and groaned as if agony but was thrust gradually forward. Curly felt it moving faster and faster, and instinctively he prepared for that backward leap which would carry him out of reach of the treacherous avalanche of falling logs. A second later his peavey was torn from his hands by the sudden collapse of half the face of the jam. The logs at his side vanished in the unexpected rush, but that on which he stood remained firm for a precious moment. Below him he saw Bainbridge whirl like a cat and grasp for something solid. Instantly he bent over, reaching out both callous, muscular hands, and as swiftly Bob gripped them. There was a heave, an upward scramble, another crash as the remainder of the jam disappeared into the foaming water. But the two men had leaped in time, and a moment later they were standing together on the bank. “Thank you--Curly,” Bainbridge said in a level voice. “That was touch-and-go for a minute.” That was all, but somehow Curly knew that what he had done was understood and appreciated. In the stress of the peril which the two had shared shoulder to shoulder like common brother river hogs, Kollock’s anger and hate had vanished utterly. He no longer desired revenge. His attitude of a scant half hour before seemed small and mean and petty. He had saved the life of the man his brother wanted out of the way, and, given the opportunity, he would do it as promptly again. CHAPTER XIII. THE LIMIT Curly Kollock’s interest and liking for his boss grew stronger day after day. There was something about Bob Bainbridge which stirred the finer qualities in his nature, and brought twinges of shame to the young riverman whenever he thought how near he had come to throwing his lot with his brother. If Bill ever showed up he resolved to tell him just what he thought of him, too. But in the meantime, not being much of a penman, he made no effort to answer the letter. It was sufficient that he considered himself cut loose from the whole miserable bunch. If they were expecting aid from him in their plotting they were doomed to disappointment. More and more often as they descended the Katahdin River, the boy was stirred to anger at the constant succession of moves made by that gang of crooks against the man who fought them practically alone and singlehanded.