CHAPTER III
TWO YOUNG LUMBERMEN AT HOME
For several minutes Dale could think of nothing but that he was at the bottom of the brook and in danger of drowning. His head hurt, there was a strange ringing in his ears, and almost before he knew it he had gulped down a quantity of the cool water.
But "self-preservation is the first law of nature," and even though dazed he floundered around and tried to pull himself up out of the stream. Twice he slipped back. Then his hand fastened on a tree root and he stuck there, gasping for breath, spluttering, and trying to collect his senses.
"Who—who hit me?" he muttered at last.
When he felt strong enough to do so, he crawled up the bank of the stream and sank in a heap at the foot of a big tree. On one side of his forehead was a big lump, and on the other a small cut from which the blood was flowing.
"Just wait till I catch the fellow who did that," he told himself. "I'll square up with him."
His mind reverted to Baptiste Ducrot. Had the French-Canadian been the one to attack him? It was more than likely.
It was fully five minutes later when the young lumberman made another discovery. He was bathing the cut when, on glancing around, he noted that the horse he had been riding had disappeared.