This was the obstacle that Mark would be obliged to pass on his way to the river. Of course there was a possibility that he would accomplish the descent in safety, for he was a skillful boatman, and he knew that more than one canoe and dozens of heavy rafts had passed over the falls when the water was at its highest; but if any accident befell him—if he once allowed himself to be brought within the influence of the powerful current that set toward the cavern—if his paddle broke or he became exhausted, it would be “all day” with him.
Mark thought of these things while he was munching his sandwiches, and when the last one had been disposed of he stepped into his canoe and began to make preparations for his perilous voyage.
His first move was to pack the geese carefully away under the thwarts, so that they would not be thrown overboard in case of any sudden lurching of his little vessel, and the second to fasten a strap to his shotgun and sling it over his shoulder.
Mark was greatly attached to that little double-barrel, and he was determined that if he passed Dead Man’s Elbow in safety, the gun should go through safely, also.
Perhaps his hands trembled a little while he was making these preparations, perhaps too, he wished that some other boy had been standing in his boots just then; but there was no alternative between attempting the passage of the falls and camping all night in the swamp without a fire, and of the two evils he thought he had chosen the least.
All things being ready, Mark cast off the painter, and with one sweep of the paddle turned the canoe about and sent it flying down the bayou. He went at almost railroad speed, but kept his craft completely under control, and when at last he came suddenly around a sharp bend and found himself between two high bluffs, with Dead Man’s Elbow in plain sight, he had screwed his courage up to the sticking point, and was ready to face the danger.
He placed his hat more firmly on his head, tightened his grasp on his paddle, and fastening his eyes on the falls before him, was nerving himself for the plunge, when his attention was suddenly attracted by loud shouts, which sounded from the cliffs above. He looked up, and the sight that met his gaze filled him with amazement and consternation.
Near the middle of the bayou, and but a short distance above the falls, was a dead tree which must have possessed enormous roots, for it had stood there ever since I could remember, holding its upright position in defiance of the logs and rafts that had been dashed against it.
It was not the tree itself that fixed Mark’s gaze and excited his surprise, but something that was crouching among its branches. It was not a bear or panther, but a man, dressed in a tattered brown jeans suit, who seemed to be very badly frightened, for that portion of his face which was visible over his bushy, uncombed whiskers was as pale as death.
Stranded on the very brink of the falls was the skiff in which the man had doubtless descended the bayou. It was lying on its side, half filled with water, and all that kept it from going over the falls was the log against which it had lodged.