  At Little Moose Rapids the Big Smokey river plunged through a gorge nearly a half mile long before it finally came once more to a gentler incline where canoeing was safe. Only the most daring of canoeists ever risked piloting a frail craft through this treacherous stretch of water, and many who had dared had been drowned. Dick’s last minute resolution was one of desperation. Though he and Sandy were experts with the paddle, yet they never would have considered attempting to shoot any rapids had death or capture not threatened them. “We’ll never make it!” the optimistic Sandy was shaken from his cheeriness by Dick’s desperate resolve. “We’ve got to!” shouted Dick, as with one strong stroke of his paddle he swerved the canoe head on with the current, and they sped straight toward the gorge. At the maneuver they heard an angry shout from the shore that had been their destination. Even at that distance they could detect the menace in that cry, and with added zeal they bent to their paddles. Then a rifle cracked and a ball whistled across the water behind them. Another and another shot was fired while they sped on swifter and swifter. “We’re getting out of range!” Dick cried. “I hope so,” panted Sandy. “They’re poor marksmen, anyhow,” Dick returned. They both fell silent as they left one danger behind, only to face one almost as threatening. The river swiftly narrowed and deepened as they swept down between the high walls of the gorge. A sullen roar of the water against the numerous rocks and against the solid walls could be heard. The canoe seemed to shoot ahead like a leaf on the wind. Louder and louder grew the sound of rushing water. Then the boys saw the first wave of foam and spray where the water whirled among several huge boulders. Sandy was in the bow, Dick in the stern when they struck the first angry whirlpool. “Use your paddle to push off the rocks,” shouted Dick above the rumble of the water. They scudded past a huge, wet boulder, seemed almost flung against another, only to be whisked into a deep pool where it was all Dick and Sandy could do to keep the canoe from turning clear around. Out of the pool, they danced on once more. The rapids were clear of rocks for a space, but they were moving so fast that it seemed no time before they reached a giant buttress of stone that seemed to bar the way. “Push off,” cried Dick. “I’ll backwater. Heave now. Here we go!” They shaved the bluff so closely that the grind of the canoe upon the rock could be heard. The dash of water against the cliff showered down upon them, and the canoe took in a bucketful. “Dip the water out!” shouted Dick, while they spun into another deep pool, the cliff behind them. Sandy began frantically bailing out the water with his hat, while Dick desperately held the canoe bow against the current. The gorge was deeper now, almost shutting out the early morning sunlight. All about spray flew in the air, like driving mist, and the roar of rushing water was almost deafening. The canoe was holding up well, yet its two occupants realized its frail shell would be shattered to atoms if but once it was thrown upon one of the countless rocks they seemed to miss by inches. “I hope we don’t hit a waterfall,” shouted Sandy as he ceased bailing water and drew a long breath. “Let ’er come,” responded Dick daringly, swerving the canoe this way and that with a lusty stroke of his paddle. “Look out, another rock!” Sandy turned from his bailing and grasped his paddle just in time. In a crouch he met the boulder with the end of the paddle and pushed. The canoe forged off to the left, dodged in between two other rocks, and once more they reached a space comparatively straight and free from obstructions. Like an arrow they shot onward. The noise of the foaming water was fast increasing in volume. Dick feared a waterfall, and silently he nerved himself for it, and none too soon. Dashing down a narrow channel and bobbing around a curve like a cork on ocean waves, he saw ahead a mist of spray and the rumble of falling water burst upon his ears. Sandy could not suppress a cry of terror, but white-lipped Dick managed to hold his breath for what was to come. “Hold tight!” he shouted to his chum. “I’ll hold her straight, and we’ll dive over. We’ve a chance. It’s not high.” Straight toward the edge of the waterfall the canoe shot with terrific speed. The rumble of the water was frightful. Then they went over. One glimpse they had of the whirlpools boiling below the falls as the prow of the canoe swept over and the light craft leaped into the misty air, like a ski jumper. It was only a short drop of about five feet, but when the canoe struck the churning water, it spun and spun about, wallowing in the foam. Dick and Sandy were drenched to the skin in a moment. All they could do was cling to the canoe, hoping against hope. “Hang to that rock ahead, if we go under!” Dick cried, above the thunder of the falls. “I can’t see!” Sandy shouted back, rubbing the water from his eyes and coughing. Then the canoe struck something submerged, and turned over on its side, tipping Dick and Sandy into the boiling whirlpools. Dick clung to the side of the canoe as the water washed over him. For an instant Sandy disappeared, then Dick saw him come up, also clinging to the canoe, which had not entirely turned over, but had shipped so much water that it was sinking. Presently, canoe and swimmers were whipped into a deep pool below the falls, and Dick and Sandy began desperately flinging water out of their craft. A little later they crawled back into their canoe, wet as half drowned rats, and Dick pushed off into the center of the stream. The worst was over. Below the falls the gorge widened out slowly and the current grew more sluggish. For a quarter of an hour they glided on silently without need of their paddles, except to keep the craft in the center of the stream. “Whew! I hope we don’t run into any more rapids,” Sandy breathed more freely. Dick emphatically agreed. “Next time,” said he, “I’ll prefer facing the bullets, I think. Gee, if the fellows back in the U. S. A. knew what we’d just gone through they’d have a fit.” “They’ll never believe it,” Sandy opined. “We’ll make ’em believe it if we live to tell it,” vowed Dick, pulling extra hard on his paddle and making the canoe leap forward like a live thing. “But, to change the subject, I guess we left the enemy behind this time.” “I’ll say so,” Sandy came back, “but two duckings in two days isn’t fair. Where can I stop off and get dry?” “I think we’d better keep moving till noon,” Dick advised. “Then we can kill two birds with one stone—eat and dry off too.” Sandy saw the wisdom of this and fell silent, bending his energies to the paddle. They made good time until about noon, when they espied a sandy shoal ahead of them that promised plenty of dry firewood for a campfire. They drew in, beached the canoe and made camp. An hour later, dry again and in good spirits, they pushed off and went on down the river. “Seems as if I smell burning wood in the air,” Dick remarked a couple of miles further on. “I do too,” Sandy replied, “——must be a forest fire somewhere near.” “Hope it’s not too near,” said Dick, “a forest fire would hold us up a while even if we are on the river. I’ve heard my father tell about the fires they used to have in Oregon. They’re no joke.” Sandy was about to add what he knew of forest fires when they both sighted another canoe toiling upstream. At that distance they could not at first distinguish whether there was more than one in the canoe. However, they held any stranger they might meet a possible enemy, since Martin MacLean had told them how far-reaching was the hand of Bear Henderson, and so they prepared for hostility. Slowly the two canoes drew together. Sandy quietly picked up his rifle, while Dick continued paddling. They could now see there was but one man in the canoe. “Hello there,” Dick hailed. The stranger waved a hand, ceased paddling, except to hold his canoe against the current, and waited for the boys to glide up. He was a tall man, with long, dark hair and a leathery face. “Where you goin’?” he asked as the canoe prows touched. “Mackenzie’s Landing,” Dick replied, seeing nothing hostile in the other’s demeanor, and seeing no reason why he should not reveal his destination, if not his errand. “I got my grub stole back river a piece,” the stranger said, pointing over his shoulder with one thumb. “Have you fellers got plenty of grub?” “Sure,” Dick answered. “Want to eat with us? Our grub’s a little wet, but it swallows all right.” “I’d be obliged,” the stranger returned, “but mebbe you wasn’t figgerin’ to stop jest now.” “We just had a snack,” Dick admitted, “but if you’re hungry we’ll split what we have.” “I jest need enough to get me to Fort du Lac.” “Fort du Lac!” Dick and Sandy chorused. “We just came from there!” “So? Wal, it’ll be nigh three days canoein’ up river, an’ I’ll need grub. No time to hunt. You fellers didn’t happen to run across an Injun with a heap of scars on his face?” the man asked, searching their faces. “A scar faced Indian!” Sandy exclaimed. “Why——” “Well, yes,” Dick broke in with a warning look at his chum. “We noticed a fellow of that description at the fort. Didn’t think much about him,” Dick was cautious. “You fellers needn’t be afraid to tell me all you know,” the stranger had noticed Dick’s reserve and his interruption of Sandy. “I ain’t publishin’ my business but my name’s Slade.” “Not Malemute Slade, the scout for the mounted!” Dick exclaimed, for the man’s reputation as a scout was a fable in the north country, and many times he had heard it spoken with awe and admiration. “There’s them call me Malemute Slade,” admitted the tall man cooly, “but what was that about this here scar faced Indian?” Dick then related the queer experiences at the fort. The canoes were permitted to drift on down the river while they talked. Malemute Slade listened attentively. “His name’s Many-Scar Jackson,” Slade told them when they had finished with their story. “He’s wanted for murder down the river a piece. But that’s nothin’ to this Henderson breakin’ loose. That’s news to me, an’ it’ll be news for the mounted maybe. I’ve heard rumors f’r a long time, but didn’t think much of it. A tough customer, Henderson. You fellers wants to watch y’r step. If I seen any of the gang that was foller’n you I’ll square up with ’em.” In the keen eyes and the lean jaw of the far-famed Malemute Slade the boys saw that which made them confident that Slade could “square up” with most any one or any number. “Tell the factor you saw us and that we’re all right—only got a ducking when we shot Little Moose Rapids,” Dick said. Malemute Slade’s eyes lighted up. He looked with new respect at Dick’s wiry figure. “So you fellers shot the Little Moose an’ come through alive—wal, I swan. You must have toted a dozen rabbit’s feet.” “Not a one,” Dick replied modestly, while Sandy grinned with pride. “Y’r apt to have somethin’ worse on your hands afore you get to Mackenzie’s,” Malemute surprised them. “There’s a forest fire whoopin’ it up back a piece, an’ it’ll maybe hit the river afore you pass it. There’s a bit of smoke in the air now. Hey!” Dick and Sandy started up and looked where Slade pointed. Nearly four hundred yards down the river a stag had come down to drink and was standing half in and half out of the water. The canoes were slowly drifting down upon it. “You fellers want a fresh haunch o’ venison f’r tonight?” queried Malemute. “You bet!” Dick and Sandy chimed, “but the deer’s seen us and we can’t get close enough for a shot.” “Reckon I can drop him from here,” Malemute Slade replied cooly. “What!” Dick exclaimed incredulously. Malemute’s only reply was slowly to raise his 45.70 lever action rifle to his shoulder. Dick and Sandy watched breathlessly. Motionless as a statue, the big man took aim before his rifle crashed. As the echo of the shot sounded in the silent forest, the stag leaped upward and fell into the river with a soundless splash. “Now you fellers split your grub with me, an’ I’ll be goin’ on. If I had time I’d paddle down an’ cut a hunk off that deer. But I’ll have to be moochin’.” Malemute Slade thought nothing of the wonderful exhibition of markmanship he had just made, and Dick and Sandy were awed to silence as they undid their packs and transferred half their food into the scout’s canoe. Malemute Slade paid them in king’s coin for the provisions. “You’ll probably see me again afore this Henderson business is over, but it’s hard tellin’,” was Malemute’s parting prophecy. “Au revoir.” “Au revoir,” the boys sang out the French “so long,” and started on to where the stag had fallen. Late that evening, making camp at a point they judged somewhere within fifty miles of Mackenzie’s Landing, the smoke of the forest fire was so strong it made them cough. They had paddled a little way up a small creek for the night, thinking to make themselves more secure from a possible night attack from Henderson’s men, who seemed so determined they should not get to the mounted police. “I’m afraid we’re in for it,” Dick shook his head concernedly. “It sure feels as if we were close to a fire,” Sandy agreed dubiously. “Well, we’ll need all the sleep we can get at any rate,” Dick concluded, as he rolled into his blankets, and Sandy prepared for the first watch. |
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