"My friends," said he, with a serio-comic expression on his round face, "don't you try swimming, either. We saw a young fellow do that, and—I swan! if he didn't go down-stream like a chip. He would reach the shore time and again and try to get hold of something, but there was nothing but loose gravel, and it gave way as soon as he touched it, and away the current would hustle him. It kept that fellow moving for a mile, and he might be going yet if he hadn't been washed up on a gravel bar."
These tales of the dread Klaheena were anything but reassuring to the Bradfords; and in the imagination of the boys that river began to assume the form of a ravening monster. What with mountain torrents and highwaymen, they felt that they would be the most fortunate of mortals if they reached the coast in safety. They discovered, as many a brave man has done, that the terrors of anticipation are often far more unnerving than a real and present danger.
About the middle of the afternoon they crossed two deep ravines, each the bed of a noisy brook, and soon afterward found themselves on the highest ridge of the bleak uplands. It was not thought necessary here to keep together, and Uncle Will and Roly were fully a quarter of a mile in advance of Mr. Bradford and David, who had paused to make pannings at the streams in the ravines.
"Keep a sharp lookout for our pack train," cautioned Uncle Will. "I think they've camped somewhere here, and we don't want to miss them."
As he spoke, he and Roly were approaching the crest of a low hill. Suddenly Uncle Will, who was leading, stopped, then threw himself at full length on the ground.
"Down, Roly, quick!" he whispered. "There's a caribou coming. Don't make a sound."
Roly dropped instantly, and the two lay there, quiet but excited, gazing at the crest of the hill not more than forty feet ahead, Uncle Will meantime drawing his revolver. Roly had no weapon but his knife, and the only kind of a shot he could take was a snapshot,—for he happened to be carrying David's camera. Even that might not be possible, for the sun was almost in line with the game.
Fortunately the wind was blowing from the caribou's direction, and without scenting danger he trotted briskly along the trail. After a moment of thrilling suspense the two watchers saw first his antlers and then his head and body rise above the sky-line, until the magnificent animal stood full in view. He paused an instant as if to reconnoitre, which gave Uncle Will his opportunity. The report of the revolver rang out sharply.
The caribou started, looked about without seeming to discover the two crouching figures, then circled slowly off to the right as if to get the scent from the point of danger. Uncle Will fired again and with better effect, for the caribou stopped and wavered. Meanwhile Roly, camera in hand, was manœuvring for a position from which he could take a picture. Before he had succeeded, a third shot brought the caribou to his knees. He rose, struggled forward a step or two, then sank never to rise again. All three bullets had struck him, and it was found that the first, which appeared to have so little effect, had gone clear through his body, from front to rear.
"We've got him!" exclaimed Uncle Will, delightedly, as he ran toward the fallen game. "It's queer for an old hunter like me to have buck fever, but I had it that time. Did you see my hand tremble, Roly? Didn't think I could hit the side of a house. Did you get the picture?"