It was a desperate expedient, but Norton was too hot with anger to care for possibilities. Before the man could fire his second barrel, Norton's weight sent the canoe over backward; he went with it, felt himself grappled, and had a brief glimpse of Audubon leaping at the canoe as he went under.
The water was little more than knee-deep, but Norton felt something sting at his shoulder and knew his opponent had a knife out. Smashing down with his fist through the smother, he tried to free himself of the hand at his throat, but vainly. Already wounded, he felt a terrible weakness stealing over him, and the water choked his lungs. His fingers closed on a wrist, and he gripped it desperately as he struggled up to get his head above the water.
In this he succeeded, pulling his opponent with him, and for a moment the two men stood breast to breast. The riverman fought with an appalling savagery, snarling like a beast, and Norton knew his case was desperate. Blood blinded him: the hand about his throat drew tighter; and with only his right hand holding off the menacing knife, he put down his left hand to his belt in a last desperate effort.
The other saw his object, but could not prevent it without loosing his hold on Norton's throat. Snarling again, he threw himself forward; Norton was not braced against the move, and went over backward into the water. It was life or death now, and the Louisianian knew it. Jerking his own knife free, he lashed out frantically. The blade drove home, but he pulled it free and struck, again and again.
Wounded, throttled, choked with mud and water, Norton felt himself loosed from that terrible death-grapple. He tried weakly to lift himself erect, but could only raise his head from the water, sobbing in the smoke-laden air, while burning cane-flakes fell all around. He could see nothing, but felt hands lifting him and heard the voice of Audubon in his ear. The words sounded faint and very far away.
Norton was by no means unconscious, but he was weak and nauseated and half-drowned. He was well assured that never again would he have to seek a left-handed man with red-streaked powder-horn. He needed no glimpse of the horror-struck visage of Audubon to tell him that their enemy would fire no more canebrakes.
He felt Audubon bundle him over the side of the canoe, with much difficulty, but was too weak to offer any assistance. Then Audubon himself climbed aboard and began to paddle the craft out into the river. Norton lay in the grip of a deadly coma until a burning flake settled on his back and aroused him as it ate through his leather shirt. He rolled over, quenched the burning in the water that half-filled the canoe, and sat up.
Clutching at the gunnels, he stared about. Behind was the roaring mass of flame which had so nearly swallowed them, and they were already in the swift current of the stream. The river made a sharp bend just above them, toward which the smoke was drifting; they had already swept out of the murk, and Norton saw a flatboat floating down-river, half a mile away.
Setting his teeth against the giddiness swirling over him, he reached down and grasped a paddle. At his feet were the rifles; Audubon must have recovered them, then. As he got his paddle over the side, Audubon looked around with a ghastly smile.
"All right, Norton?"