By this time they were scarcely less than a quarter of a mile below the falls, so swiftly had they sped downward, and being so close to shore, Little Rifle determined to make a desperate attempt to land at the first point that offered the least hope.
Suddenly he saw an opening in the rocks, a place where they were so depressed that he could reach the upper edge with his hands, if he could bring himself sufficiently near.
A furious plunge forward, and he succeeded. Throwing up his free arm, he grasped the rim, but the swiftness of the current, and the support of the helpless lad, instantly tore his grasp loose, and both sped onward again.
“I’ll make it next time,” was his thought, as his courage rose with the difficulty. “The stream is broadening, and must run a great deal slower. I will soon find a footing, and when I can secure that, I will bring us both out all right. He is alive,” he mentally added, as he looked at him again, “for he has struggled more than once, but he is badly hurt, and he may die, after all.”
Just then, Little Rifle’s moccasins struck the bottom, and, as they were drawn up, in his efforts at swimming, this showed that the water was quite shallow. Instantly dropping his feet, he stood with it rising scarcely above his waist; but even then it was the utmost he could do to retain his footing, so powerful was the sweep of the current.
He succeeded by a strong effort, and never losing his hold upon his charge, dragged him to shore and stretched him out at full length upon his back, where the sun could shine full upon his face.
The boy lay like one that was dead, with his eyes partly closed, and the blood trickling from the wound in his forehead. For a moment, the heart of Little Rifle seemed to stand still, as he believed that it was all over with him, and he knelt down to make sure.
Examining the wound, he found that it was much less serious than he had supposed, the bone of the forehead being unbroken. It had probably been caused, not by striking the jagged point of a rock in his fearful descent, but when driven about by the whirlpool or current, his head must have grazed some of the numerous projections, causing only a superficial wound, where, in the other case, instant death would have been the result.
Little Rifle tore a piece of the fringe from his hunting-shirt, and with it endeavored to stanch the flow of blood. As he pressed it against the raw wound, the forehead of the lad contracted as though with pain. Little Rifle paused for an instant, and then did it more gently than before. At this the sufferer opened his eyes, looking up with a vacant, bewildered stare, like one recovering from a sound sleep.
His attendant now raised his head upon his knee, and endeavored to rouse him to consciousness.