He left another note for Mr. Livingston, after making certain that the following party was nowhere in view of the mountainside. Anchoring the rope to a stone support of the wrecked bridge, he slid down onto the narrow shelf.
Pedro lay moaning with pain, unable to take a step by himself.
Leaving him for a few moments, Ken and Jack investigated the balsa, which proved to be in sea-worthy condition.
Ken took the stern paddle and Jack the bow. Steering in close to the rock shelf, they managed to lower Pedro onto the raft. What few supplies that remained, were piled in the center of the craft.
“This river evil,” whispered Pedro, stirring beneath the blanket Jack spread over him. “Dangerous to cross.”
Only too well, Jack and Ken were aware of the risks involved. The surface of the fast-moving stream was broken by a series of rapids, a warning that a waterfall might await them beyond the first bend.
“We may as well shove off,” Ken urged.
The balsa slid easily through the foaming water, close to shore. Rocks were everywhere and the current was deceptively swift.
Jack dipped his paddle cautiously, studying the opposite shore. Where could they land? He knew the stream was treacherous, and that once the awkward raft was out into the main draw, they might not be able to stay its progress down river.
“Think we can make it?” he asked doubtfully.