“I go down, you go up,” the Buck panted. He dived from the bank, into the Monongahela; Robert dived. And that was the last he saw of the Buck for some time.
The Buck could swim swiftly down with the current. No doubt he planned to enter the Allegheny and land and cut through the woods for the east where George Croghan lived. But to swim up the Monongahela was a different proposition for the Hunter. Besides, here came the Ottawas and Hurons pell-mell, to their canoes. They, of course, would think that the two boys were swimming across. The river was dark, the Hunter sank low, paddling just enough to keep afloat. The current tugged at him; he never could escape those canoes now spreading from the landing place above him. He turned back. Aha! His groping hands felt a snag—the roots of an old grounded tree, in an eddy of a curve of the high bank. He dragged himself forward, sinking still lower underneath the jagged roots and throwing his head back until only his nose was above for air.
On swept the canoes, bearing warriors to beat the river and to search the shore beyond. For a long time he waited, until the hue and cry had died. Then he left the roots, and was paddling out when he sank low again.
Here came another canoe, and it paused almost over him. It held two Indians.
“They are Mingos, and like eels,” said one. “It would be like them to hide along the bank until we passed.”
“You talk sense,” said the other. “Let us try along the bank up river; they are not down river.”
They dug with their paddles—one in the bows, one in the stern. The Hunter gently extended his hand; it closed upon the stem of the canoe, and kicking under water and gently stroking he went with the canoe. Pretty soon one of the Indians spoke again.
“The canoe is heavy.”
“Wah! It is the current. You are weak in your arms, brother,” answered the other. “Dig deeply.”
At this, Robert almost laughed.