Part 17 (2/2)

”A brute!” cried the stranger fiercely. ”I asked them to give me a lift, as I was going to starve here if they didn't, and I warned them that I had heard it wanted a strong party to take a craft through the rapids. 'All right, stranger,' he said, pus.h.i.+ng the craft a little nearer. 'Mind lending me your knife to trim this rough pole with? I've lost mine.'”

It was Abel now who glanced at Dallas.

”'Catch,' I said, pitching mine, in its sheath.”

”Well?” said the Cornishman, fumbling in his belt.

”Well,” continued the man, with a sombre look in his eyes, ”he caught it, and began to smooth his pole, letting the raft drift away; and though I begged and prayed of them to stop for me, they only laughed, and let her get right into the current. It was life or death to me, as I thought then,” continued the stranger, ”and I climbed along that shelf and followed, shouting and telling them I was starving, and begging them to throw me my knife back if they wouldn't take me aboard; but they only laughed, and told me to go and hang myself. But I followed on as fast as I could, right along to the opening yonder where it's so narrow that I could speak to them close to; and though I knew they couldn't stop the raft there, I thought they'd throw me my knife.”

”And did they?” said the Cornishman.

”No. I was there just before them, and I shouted; but you can't hear yourself speak there, the roar echoes so from the rocks. The next minute they'd been swept by me so near I could almost have jumped on board; and there I stood, holding on and reaching out so that I could see them tear down through the rus.h.i.+ng water. They'd took fright, dropped their poles, and were down on their knees holding on, with the raft twisting slowly round.”

”Capsized?” cried Dallas.

”Drowned?” cried Abel.

”I could not see,” continued the stranger. ”I watched them till they went into a sort of fog with a rainbow over it, and then I felt ready to jump in and try to swim, or get drowned, for without my knife I felt that all was over.”

”Not drowned, then?” said Dallas.

”No, my son; them as is born to be hanged'll never be drowned,” said the big Cornishman grimly. ”Look ye here, old chap, you'd better take this toothpick; it's the one that the boss of that party who stole our raft lost.”

”Ah!” cried the stranger; ”they stole your raft?”

”They did, my son, and it seems to me things aren't at all square, for these here fellows are ready to do anything--from committing murder down to stealing a knife. Why, they've even cheated death, or else they'd be lying comfortably buried in the snow.”

”Ha!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Dallas, as he stood grasping his pole, and the raft began to glide along.

”Yes, it is 'Hah!' my son,” said the Cornishman; ”but I shouldn't wonder if we came across a tree some day bearing fruit at the end of a hempen stalk. I say, though, my son, is the river below there so dangerous as you say?”

”Yes; it is a horrible fall, as far as I could see.”

”Then hadn't you better stop ash.o.r.e?”

”And starve?” said the man bitterly.

”You're ready to risk it, then?” said Dallas.

”I'd risk anything rather than stop alone in this horrible solitude,”

said the stranger excitedly.

”All right, then, my son. There's a spare pole. Set your pack down; take hold, and come on.”

The stranger did as he was told, and took the place pointed out.

”If it's as noisy as he says,” continued the Cornishman, ”there'll be no shouting orders--it'll all be signs. So what you see me do you've got to follow. Spit in your hands, all of you, and hold tight with your feet. Stick to it, and we'll get through. We must; there's no other way.”

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