Paralyzed with fear, Phillipe sat frozen. He fancied he could hear the roar of rapids below and was certain he would be swept to his doom.
“Throw the rope!” Jack yelled again. “Quick!”
Recovering from paralysis, Phillipe suddenly hurled the free end toward shore. His throw was powerful. To the relief of the Scouts, the rope fell on the rocks, and they were able to seize it. Fighting the current, they slowly pulled the raft to safety.
Dripping wet and shivering from terror, Phillipe stumbled out onto shore.
“Gracias Senors,” he mumbled, collapsing in a shivering heap. “You save my life!”
“We may have saved you a wild ride down the canyon,” Jack conceded as he salvaged the water-soaked tarp. “This rope is badly frayed. A few more hard jerks against the sharp rocks and it would have been cut in half.”
After wringing out their damp clothes, the Scouts started for the mining camp. Passing the locked, deserted office, they went on to the tent area.
“No fire,” Ken observed from a distance. “No one around, either.”
Slightly in advance of the others, he went quickly to the tent occupied by Willie and War. Everything was in order. But no one was there.
Meanwhile, Jack and Mr. Livingston had been looking around outside. The fire, they noted in alarm, had been dead many hours.