CHAPTER VIII.

OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH.

At this instant, while Little Rifle was making such a tremendous effort to save himself, his shoulder struck something. He supposed that it was the canoe, or that he had grazed a rock in his meteor-like passage through the water; but, the wild hope that it was neither of these, caused him to throw out his arm and clutch at it.

As he did so, he found that he had grasped the arm of the boy, for whose sake he had made this desperately perilous attempt.

Having got it in his grasp, Little Rifle did not let it go again, but held to it, as though his own life depended upon the result, while, with the other arm and his feet, he redoubled his efforts to make the surface of the turbulent current.

The very velocity of the sorely-pressed stream was in favor of the lads, as it carried them speedily into water heavy enough to afford a swimmer support; but, before this was done, and when the brave rescuer felt that he could hold out no longer, he brought himself and his burden to the top of the water.

Even in this critical, this fearful moment, when it seemed that his own body would burst with agony, Little Rifle made certain that his companion was given the same blessed privilege before he availed himself of it. He saw him start and gasp, he felt the arm which was in his grasp feebly start or struggle, and then, with the lungs of both filled with the delicious life-giving air, they went down again.

In that momentary sight that Little Rifle had gained of the face of the boy, during the single instant that it remained above the water, he caught sight of a red spot of blood upon the forehead, which showed that he was hurt and bleeding very fast, else the crimson current could not have shown itself so quickly.

In a shorter period than before, the two came to the top of the water again, and Little Rifle, with a thrill of hope, found that they were beyond the light, fleecy foam, and were speeding downward through water in which he was able to support both himself and his charge.

The skill of the young trapper was as great in the handling of himself while in the water as it was in hunting or trailing through the woods, and now his confidence came back to him, when he felt certain that he could accomplish something by that same skill and strength.

Still retaining his hold upon the arm of the boy, he managed to bring his head above the surface once more, while with the other arm he impelled both through the water, toward the bank, from which he had made his leap.

The current was still so swift that he could hardly hope to effect a landing until they should reach a point further down, but it was prudent to put himself in a position where he could avail himself of the first turn in his favor.

Looking again at the countenance by his shoulder, he saw that the eyes were closed, and there was blood flowing over his face.

The sight convinced Little Rifle that he must speedily be gotten out of the water, if he expected to preserve his life at all, and he now bent all his efforts toward reaching the shore with him.

A few vigorous strokes brought him within a dozen feet of land, but the bank was so rocky and precipitous that it was idle to attempt to come out, and he drifted, unresisting, still further.

By this time they were scarcely less than a quarter of a mile below the falls, so swiftly had they sped downward, and being so close to shore, Little Rifle determined to make a desperate attempt to land at the first point that offered the least hope.

Suddenly he saw an opening in the rocks, a place where they were so depressed that he could reach the upper edge with his hands, if he could bring himself sufficiently near.

A furious plunge forward, and he succeeded. Throwing up his free arm, he grasped the rim, but the swiftness of the current, and the support of the helpless lad, instantly tore his grasp loose, and both sped onward again.

“I’ll make it next time,” was his thought, as his courage rose with the difficulty. “The stream is broadening, and must run a great deal slower. I will soon find a footing, and when I can secure that, I will bring us both out all right. He is alive,” he mentally added, as he looked at him again, “for he has struggled more than once, but he is badly hurt, and he may die, after all.”

Just then, Little Rifle’s moccasins struck the bottom, and, as they were drawn up, in his efforts at swimming, this showed that the water was quite shallow. Instantly dropping his feet, he stood with it rising scarcely above his waist; but even then it was the utmost he could do to retain his footing, so powerful was the sweep of the current.

He succeeded by a strong effort, and never losing his hold upon his charge, dragged him to shore and stretched him out at full length upon his back, where the sun could shine full upon his face.

The boy lay like one that was dead, with his eyes partly closed, and the blood trickling from the wound in his forehead. For a moment, the heart of Little Rifle seemed to stand still, as he believed that it was all over with him, and he knelt down to make sure.

Examining the wound, he found that it was much less serious than he had supposed, the bone of the forehead being unbroken. It had probably been caused, not by striking the jagged point of a rock in his fearful descent, but when driven about by the whirlpool or current, his head must have grazed some of the numerous projections, causing only a superficial wound, where, in the other case, instant death would have been the result.

Little Rifle tore a piece of the fringe from his hunting-shirt, and with it endeavored to stanch the flow of blood. As he pressed it against the raw wound, the forehead of the lad contracted as though with pain. Little Rifle paused for an instant, and then did it more gently than before. At this the sufferer opened his eyes, looking up with a vacant, bewildered stare, like one recovering from a sound sleep.

His attendant now raised his head upon his knee, and endeavored to rouse him to consciousness.

“Cheer up, my young friend, you are past all danger now; you have had a trip that you can boast of as long as you live. How do you feel?”

But the faculties of the boy were knocked up too much for him to comprehend his situation. He mumbled something that was unintelligible, and then closed his eyes as if to sink into a slumber.

Little Rifle was at a loss to understand what this meant but he feared it was a bad sign, and now that he had begun, he determined to arouse him to a full sense of his position. He shook him quite violently, all the time speaking in a loud voice, and fighting off his drowsy tendency. The lad had swallowed a large quantity of water, which, having thrown out, he began to show some evidence of his returning faculties.

Looking steadily in the face of Little Rifle, he glanced at the rapid river flowing by at their feet, and then seeming to comprehend, for the first time, he spoke with some coherence.

“And is it possible that I came over these falls and live to remember it? It can not be possible; it is incredible.”

“But it is true for all that,” replied Little Rifle, with a smile of delight. “You have a slight wound upon your forehead; but if that is all, you will soon be all right again. Just examine yourself and see whether you have any other injuries.”

The boy stretched his limbs, and with some assistance got upon his legs, hobbling about for several minutes.

“They are in order, and it seems I haven’t got any thing broken but my head.”

“Nor that either,” said his friend, his pleasure showing itself in his radiant face and the tones of his voice. “You have had a great shaking up, but it was a most wonderful escape. You will go with me to my home and remain with me until you recover your strength, or until you are anxious to go.”

“Your home?” repeated the stranger, in amazement; “have you a home in this wilderness?”

“Come with me and you shall see,” replied Little Rifle, flushing, and dropping his eyes with confusion to the ground.

“All right, lead the way, only don’t walk too fast, for I feel a little rheumatic in my joints, and can’t get along fast.”

As the boy hobbled forward again, leaning upon the arm of his friend, something dropped from his bosom, and as he stooped to pick it up he said, with a laugh:

“I lost my oar, hat and gun, but the spy-glass stuck by me to the last, perhaps because I could better afford to part with that than any of the others.”

“We will go back by the falls,” said Little Rifle, “for I left my gun there when I jumped into the water. Then we will take the nearest cut home, and get there, I hope, in the course of a few hours.”

“See here!” said the other, pausing for a moment, “ain’t there any Indians there?”

“I will look out for them,” was the reply; “but tell me how it was you came to be alone in your canoe on the river.”

“I will tell you as we walk along, for it is quite a long story. What is your name?”

“They call me Little Rifle,” replied the lad, with no little embarrassment of manner, “and if you please, you may do the same.”

“An odd name, but rather pretty. You may call me Harry Northend. I don’t suppose you remember ever seeing me before?” he asked, in a significant manner.

“Of course not,” returned Little Rifle, greatly surprised. “Why do you ask?”

“_Because I have seen you before!_”