CHAPTER EIGHT

A Perfect Cast

The first hint that he was in trouble came when Sandy felt his raft give a trembling lurch to one side and swing sharply out into the channel. He had been casting for about fifteen minutes without success, keeping close to the protection of the rocky shore as he searched the water around him for the telltale ripple of a surfacing fish. Once or twice, when he had strayed out toward the middle of the stream in pursuit of a silvery flash, he quickly realized his danger and paddled back to safety. But now he had gone too far. He was nearly ten yards away from the near shore, moving at an ever-increasing rate of speed toward Cutthroat Rapids.

Still, he thought to himself, there was plenty of time to get back. The rapids were a good half mile away and the river was not yet white with lashing foam.

In the end, it was a cutthroat trout that very nearly caused his death. He was a big fellow—at least eighteen inches, Sandy figured—and he chose that particular moment to break through the water with a twisting leap that nearly sent him into Sandy’s lap. The sight of that magnificent fish momentarily drove all thought of danger from Sandy’s head. Just one cast more, he decided, and then he would head back.

But Sandy never had a chance to make that cast. The river, in one of its unpredictable shifts, suddenly grabbed his raft and sent it skimming and twisting out into the main current. Dropping all thoughts of landing the cutthroat, Sandy leaned hastily over to pick up his paddle.

How it happened, Sandy never knew. One moment he had the paddle; the next instant he saw it shoot out of his hand and land in the water out of reach. He was helpless, caught in the grip of Lost River, minutes away from a bone-shattering fall over Cutthroat Rapids.

Fighting down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, Sandy twisted around to call for help. Mike was standing just about where he had left him, patiently practicing his casts, unaware of the terrible danger that had suddenly overtaken Sandy.

“Mike!” Sandy screamed, realizing, as he shouted, that nobody could help him now. “Mike!”

Mike looked up with a start. A look of surprise and horror passed over his face as he took in the situation. Sandy saw him turn and shout something to his father and Joe. Then he was running along the side of the river, his fly rod still clutched in his hand.

Cutthroat Rapids was closer now. It sent up a deep, angry roar as hundreds of tons of water thundered over its rocks. Sandy’s fragile raft swayed and shook, tossed in every direction by the seething current. Clinging desperately to the slippery sides of his raft, Sandy could feel a cold spray lash at his face. Shifting his weight to ride out the bucking river, Sandy leaned to one side, then the other. Suddenly the raft leaped out of the water, gave an agonized shake and fell back on its side. The force of the fall threw Sandy from the raft and he was swept along into the remorseless current. The raging waters carried him for about fifteen feet before they slammed him, dazed and shaken, into an obstruction that clogged the river just above the rapids.

At first Sandy thought he had hit a rock. But as his groping hands clawed for a grip, he felt the sharp scratch of a branch and the rough, comforting scrape of a tree trunk.

Miraculously, the current had deposited him on the upriver side of a log jam that trembled less than twenty yards above the rapids.

Gasping for breath, Sandy shook the water out of his eyes and took a closer look at his island. He knew almost immediately that this was merely a reprieve. Already the tangle of trees groaned and shifted under the insistent tugging of the current. Here and there a few branches were tearing free, too frail to withstand the pounding pressure of the surly river.

He glanced over at the nearest shore. Only about twenty feet. He hadn’t realized he was that close. The distance gave him an idea. The rope around his middle! Would it reach? Would he be able to throw it? Hardly daring to believe he had a chance, he took a tight grip on a stout branch and, with his free hand, began to unwind the line.

When he looked back at the shore, the rope dangling from one hand, he saw that Mike had arrived and was trying to wade out into the water toward him.

“No, Mike!” Sandy shouted. “You’ll be carried away!” He held his rope over his head. “I’m going to try to throw this!” he yelled.

But even as Sandy reared back to heave the line, he knew the light rope would never carry all the way to the shore. He felt the log jam shudder and move a few inches closer to the rapids. He put every ounce of his strength into the throw, but the rope didn’t even reach halfway.

Sandy’s mind raced over the possibilities of escape. There had to be a way out. There just had to!

“Sandy!” It was Mike calling out to him. “Get ready and watch your eyes!” Sandy saw that Mike had taken up his fly rod and was about to cast. Suddenly, as he realized what Mike had in mind, his heart gave a leap. It might work!

“Go ahead!” he shouted, ducking underneath a branch. Following the instructions Sandy had given him, Mike brought up his rod in a free and easy motion. The line hummed through the reel and floated above Sandy’s head. As the lure hit the water a few feet to Sandy’s left, he reached out for it blindly, ignoring the risk of a ripped finger. But the current carried it in a mocking dance, just out of reach.

Back on shore, Mike patiently reeled in his line and set himself for another try. The log jam was breaking up now. Sandy could feel it sway and give with each push from the river. He knew there wasn’t much time left.

Mike’s rod snapped forward and, as Sandy watched, the glittering lure flashed through the air to settle lightly on the coarse bark of a branch six inches from his head.

Sandy felt the blood hammering in his temples as he maneuvered himself over to the hook that seemed to hang there by a thread. With a trembling hand, he reached out and snatched at the line. As his fingers closed around it, he allowed himself a gasp of relief.

“I’ve got it!” Sandy cried hoarsely.

“Hurry up!” came a deep voice from the shore. Sandy looked up to see Mr. Cook and Joe standing tensely beside Mike. “The jam’s about to give!”

Even as he worked the end of his rope through two of the barbed hooks, Sandy heard a noise that sounded like a piece of heavy paper being ripped down the middle. A large branch—it was more like a small tree—suddenly tore away and was swept down to the rapids by the surging current.

Sandy looped the rope once around the lure and signaled to shore. “All right!” he shouted.

The line gave a tug and began to inch toward Mike. Carefully Mike reeled in, making sure that no sudden movement would shake the rope free. It was halfway there now. Joe and Mr. Cook splashed into the water, ready to grab it as it came within range.

Sandy wanted to yell out at Mike to reel in faster, but he realized Mike knew what he was doing. He couldn’t take a chance of a slip this time. There wouldn’t be a third try.

With agonizing slowness, the end of the rope crawled toward shore. Another two or three feet. The log jam gave another sickening lurch, but Sandy hardly noticed it. He was watching the rope.

Suddenly it was there. Joe leaned over and grabbed the end. Mr. Cook moved in beside him and, together, they pulled.

“Come on!” Mr. Cook shouted. “We’ve got you!”

Sandy filled his lungs with air and kicked off from the pile of logs that had saved his life. The rope jerked once and then he was in the water, being drawn along like an enormous, awkward fish. The river fought to tear the rope out of his numbed fingers, but Sandy held on desperately. The world around him had long ago ceased to be anything but foaming water and crashing noise. There was an almost unbearable strain on his arms as he was tossed back and forth like a prize in the deadly tug of war between life and the river.

Just as he thought he couldn’t hold out another second, he felt a strong hand grip his arm. Fingers reached out and grabbed his belt, and the next moment he was being supported by Joe and Mr. Cook. Mike was standing on the shore ahead of him, his face white and shaken, his casting rod still in his hand.

“You’re all right, Sandy,” Mr. Cook was saying. “You’re safe now.”

He tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat and refused to come out. Panting heavily, he was led up the beach and finally allowed to rest. As he threw himself down on the ground, a crashing noise filled the air. Sandy forced himself to look around.

The tangled hump of tree branches was rising out of the water. As Sandy watched with a dazed expression, it seemed to give a heaving sigh before settling back into the river. There was a grinding roar and suddenly the trees were gone, claimed by the howling fury of Cutthroat Rapids. A minute later, and Sandy would have gone over too.