While Caribou sought to recover his balance, the buck, mistaking him for a new enemy, turned on him and made a savage dash that hurled him from the canoe.
Frank Merriwell was now so near that he could see the buck’s fiery eyes, note the ridging of hair along its spine, and could hear its labored and angry breathing. Its tongue protruded and was foam-flecked.
Caribou tried to seize the sides of the canoe as he went down, but the effort only served to hurl it from him, and send it spinning out into the lake.
The buck put down its head for a rush; while the hound that the guide had struck with the paddle blade did not try to renew the fight, but began to swim toward the shore, which was not distant.
“Look out!” cried Merriwell, warningly.
Caribou heard the cry, saw the antlers go down and tried to dive. But he was not quick enough. Before he was under water the buck struck him a vicious blow.
Though half stunned, he clutched it by the antlers, to which he clung desperately, while the buck struck him again, this time with one of its sharp hoofs.
Caribou, realizing that his life was in peril, tried to get out his knife, but the enraged and crazed buck bore him backward with so irresistible a rush that Caribou was kept from doing this. Then he went under the water again.
This time the buck seemed determined to hold him down till he was drowned. Merry saw the guide’s hands and feet beating the water, and knew from their motions that he was rapidly weakening.
“I’m coming!” he shouted, though he must have known that the guide could hardly hear or comprehend.