“I guess the raft’s all right now,” he remarked. “She’s going to float right behind that headland, and I’ll have the boys build a boom around her as soon as she gets there. It’ll break the waves. I don’t believe we’ve lost such a lot, after all.
“Don’t you worry, boy,” he added. “Your father’ll be all right. I’ve seen men knocked out a heap worse’n that; you don’t know the rough knocks that lumber-jacks get. We’ll get him ashore just as soon as we get into quieter water.”
It would indeed have been risky to try to get the wounded man into a boat while they were still on those plunging waves, and it was still more than an hour before the raft slowly headed its way behind the long rocky peninsula. Here the water was less broken. They brought one of the boats around to the forward end, carried Mr. Jackson into it with infinite care, and ferried him across the hundred feet of water to the land. Here they constructed a rough stretcher with saplings and boughs, and Tom, Lynch, and two other men set out with it toward camp. The rest of the men remained to make the raft fast and gather up what scattered drift timber they could salvage.
A quarter of a mile down the shore they came upon a crib that had grounded without entirely breaking up. The track of a man’s heavy boots led from it into the woods, and Tom guessed that Harrison had come ashore on those logs. It relieved his mind somewhat, for he did not want to consider himself responsible for the man’s death, but he had not much thought just then to spare on Harrison. Still further down, they sighted a canoe, Charlie’s canoe, which McLeod must have stolen, and in which he had fled from the raft. It had been run ashore roughly, and was badly split down the bow. But, like Harrison, McLeod had left nothing but tracks behind him, and Tom sincerely hoped that he would never see anything more of him.
Arriving at the camp, they put Mr. Jackson to bed in his tent. He seemed partly to revive; his eyes half opened; he muttered something and then sank into unconsciousness again. But even this symptom of returning life was encouraging.
“The nearest doctor’s at Ormond,” said Tom. “I’m going after him at once.”
“Send Charlie down to Oakley,” Lynch suggested. “There’s a doctor there. You might go out to Ormond too, if you like. Maybe one of ’em will be away, and if they both come, no harm done. But say, you’ve got to eat and rest a bit, boy. You look done up.”
Tom indeed felt the strain of the hard night, and his head once more ached splittingly. He summoned Charlie and sent him up the lake to get his canoe. It would have to be calked or patched where it was cracked, and meanwhile Tom swallowed a little breakfast and lay down with the intention of resting half an hour.
He fell into a dead sleep, and was awakened at last by Joe Lynch.
“A fellow’s just come in from Ormond with a telegram for the boss.”