“But is there no boat to be had?” cried Gunson, hoarsely. “The Indians. A canoe!”
“Went down the river last night, after bringing the fish,” said the woman wildly, and then—“Oh, the poor boy—the poor boy!” and she covered her face with her apron and began to sob.
“And we stand here like this,” groaned Gunson, “shut in here by these interminable trees. Is there no way through—no path?”
“No,” said the man who had spoken first, “no path. Only the river. We came by the water and landed here.”
“Gordon,” said my companion bitterly, “I’d have plunged in and tried to save him, but I knew it was impossible. Poor lad! poor lad! I’d have given five years of my life to have saved him.”
“But will he not swim ashore somewhere lower down?” I cried, unwilling to give up all hope. “Where the stream isn’t so strong. Let’s try and find a way through the trees.”
“Yes; let’s try a way along by the river if we can,” he said, wearily. “Poor lad! I meant differently to this.”
He led the way back to the end of the clearing, and then hesitated.
“If we could contrive something in the shape of a raft, we might float down the river. Hark! What’s that?”
For there was a faint hail from somewhere down the river—in the part hidden from us by the trees. “Ahoy!” came quite distinctly this time. “He has swum to one of the overhanging branches, and is holding on,” I cried, excitedly. “Can’t we make a raft so as to get to him?”