Part 41 (1/2)

As I reached the bank, I just caught a glimpse of Gunson running along the clearing beyond the little settlement, and my feeling of despair increased, for I knew that at the end of the opening the forest went down to the water's edge, and that any one would have to struggle through the tangle of branches and fallen trees.

”No,” I thought; ”he will get a boat.”

But I could not remember that there was a boat about the place. I had not seen one. As I thought all this in a wild, excitable way, I s.n.a.t.c.hed up some of my clothes, slipped them on partly as I ran; and even then, incongruous as it may sound, I could not help thinking how the wet hindered me. Then running on, I came upon Gunson, with his face cut and bleeding, struggling back from among the trees.

”Boat! boat!” he shouted, hoa.r.s.ely. ”Is there no boat?”

His words brought out the settler's wife, and a couple of men from one of the shanties.

”No boat here,” said one of the men. ”Anything the matter?”

Gunson tried to speak, but no words came, and in a despairing way he pointed down the river in the direction poor Esau had been swept.

The man looked as he pointed, but nothing was visible, and just then the woman cried out--

”Why, where's your mate?”

Neither could I say more than one word--”Bathing,” and I too pointed down the river.

”Bathing, and swep' away,” said one of the men. ”Ah, she runs stronger nor a man can swim. None on us here don't bathe.”

”No,” said the other man quietly; and they stood looking at us heavily.

”But is there no boat to be had?” cried Gunson, hoa.r.s.ely. ”The Indians.

A canoe!”

”Went down the river last night, after bringing the fish,” said the woman wildly, and then--”Oh, the poor boy--the poor boy!” and she covered her face with her ap.r.o.n and began to sob.

”And we stand here like this,” groaned Gunson, ”shut in here by these interminable trees. Is there no way through--no path?”

”No,” said the man who had spoken first, ”no path. Only the river. We came by the water and landed here.”

”Gordon,” said my companion bitterly, ”I'd have plunged in and tried to save him, but I knew it was impossible. Poor lad! poor lad! I'd have given five years of my life to have saved him.”

”But will he not swim ash.o.r.e somewhere lower down?” I cried, unwilling to give up all hope. ”Where the stream isn't so strong. Let's try and find a way through the trees.”

”Yes; let's try a way along by the river if we can,” he said, wearily.

”Poor lad! I meant differently to this.”

He led the way back to the end of the clearing, and then hesitated.

”If we could contrive something in the shape of a raft, we might float down the river. Hark! What's that?”

For there was a faint hail from somewhere down the river--in the part hidden from us by the trees. ”Ahoy!” came quite distinctly this time.

”He has swum to one of the overhanging branches, and is holding on,” I cried, excitedly. ”Can't we make a raft so as to get to him?”

Gunson turned, and was in the act of running toward our stopping-place, with some idea, as he afterwards told me, of tearing down two or three doors, when more plainly still came the hail. ”Ahoy! Gordon. Ahoy!”