So intent were Dave and his enemy on getting the better of each other that neither noticed their close proximity to the river until it was too late to do anything to save themselves.
Down they went through the flying spray, to strike the boiling waters which flowed so rapidly at the base of the rocks. Both went under like a flash and with equal quickness were borne along by that treacherous current which had proved the death of so many in the past and will most likely bring death to many more in the future.
The redman did not relax his hold even when both had been under the surface for some time. To him it was a struggle to the death, and he cared not how the grim terror might come, so long as the hated white person should go down with him.
But Dave, much younger, and with the hope of youth in his veins, did not intend to give up thus easily. As the waters of the river closed over him the idea of further battle with his opponent ended, and his one thought was now of how to save himself from drowning. He had been warned of the stream's treachery, and he knew that to keep from perishing would be no easy task.
With all the strength he could command he essayed to push the Indian away from him. But the warrior clung closer, for he could not swim and knew he could gain nothing by being left to himself. Thus the pair continued to struggle, and in the meanwhile the current carried them further and further away from the spot where the unfortunate tumble had occurred.
"I must get loose somehow!" thought the youth. "If only I could break that hold on my throat!" But the hold was like that of a steel band, and instead of loosening it seemed to grow tighter, until poor Dave's head began to swim and he gave himself up for lost. He drew up his knee and forced it against the Indian's breast, but still his endeavors had no effect. And now the water began to enter his mouth and nose and he felt himself growing unconscious. A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind—of Henry and Sam, and of his father and the other dear ones left behind. Was this to be the end of all—this drowning in the grasp of a hideously painted Indian?
Suddenly came an awful shock which threw Dave heels over head in the swirling waters. In their rapid passage down the stream, the Indian's head had struck fairly and squarely on a jagged rock just below the surface. The fearful impact of the blow had crushed in the warrior's skull like an egg-shell, and instantly his hold relaxed, and in a moment more the body passed from sight.
The shock threw Dave on another rock, rising less than a foot above the surface of the stream. Amid the foam and spray he felt the edge of the stone and by instinct more than reason he clutched at it wildly and held fast. Then, as he recovered his breath, he drew himself up until his head and his back were out of the water. His feet swung around with the current and there he remained, with the water tugging strongly to drag him down from his temporary place of safety.
He was in this position when discovered by the sharp eyes of Henry and Sam Barringford, and with all possible speed they ran down to the bit of shore which stuck out to within thirty feet of Dave's resting place.
"Dave! Dave!" called Henry. "Are you all right?"