“I say, Dave!” he called again. “Dave!”
“Henry!” was the feeble reply.
The voice was sufficient for Henry to locate the canoe, and he hastened toward it. Feeling around in the utter darkness he caught hold of his cousin’s knee and then his arm.
“What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”
“I—I don’t know,” faltered Dave. “A tree-limb struck me on the head.” He put up his hand. “Phew! I’ve got a lump on my forehead like a walnut!”
Henry could feel that the canoe was filling with water, and so lifted up the guns and the powder and bullet horns. Dave was slowly recovering from the shock received. Both stood up and leaned against a thick limb above the canoe.
“Let us follow the limb to shore,” said Henry, and this was done, they taking everything that had been in the canoe with them.
Among the jagged rocks the water swirled swiftly, and they had to pick their way with care. Close to the tree-trunk was a deep hole, and they had to circle this. At last they stood on the shore, where the rocks were backed up by brushwood and tall timber.
“I fancy the canoe is done for,” announced Dave. “It went up on those rocks good and hard.”
“Well, let us be thankful that it carried us as far as it did,” answered Henry, trying to be cheerful. “We must be four or five miles from that Indian camp.”