There would not be more than three men in the launch, and he would kill them, if killing became a necessity.
They were speeding like an unbridled race-horse through the boiling rapids now.

The clumsy craft under their feet twisted and turned.

The dripping tops of great rocks shot past a little out of their channel.
And Marette, with one arm still about his neck, was facing the peril ahead with him.

They could see the Dragon's Tooth, black and grim, waiting squarely in their path.

In another hundred and twenty seconds they would be upon it--or past it.