Finally the frantic Fagan, now only one jump ahead, came to a halt on a flat, level rock, some two yards in diameter, that lay midway between island and bank. Around this rock the water churned fiercely, then foamed away amid other, more jagged rocks to the lower point of the island, where it united with the main current.
This sudden about-face of his quarry did not lessen the determination of the oncoming scout. With a swift leap he bridged the intervening water, and came to a crouched landing on the same flat-topped rock occupied by the defiant deserter.
“Ha, Brown!” cried Fagan, scowling savagely.
With these words he sprang ferociously at the scout, grasping him strongly with his hairy, ape-like arms. Again, as on the bank, the two mortal adversaries writhed in mighty embrace. Again there was heavy breathing, muffled threats, and this time the added sound of sliding feet on the rough, hard surface. Then they suddenly pitched backward, struck heavily on the shoulder of the rock, and were shunted off into the raging rapids. The foaming, frothing water hid them for a moment. Except for the rush of the wild river, the nervous watchers could neither see nor hear anything.
“They’re both done for!” exclaimed Ben in horror.
“Don’t give up hope!” yelled Tom, leaping ahead now from stone to stone.
Luckily, about fifteen feet below where the two fighters had shot down into the fierce current, there was a medium-sized log, deposited between two rocks by the spring freshet. Bill Brown, as he swept past, flung a long, sinewy arm over this log, and, with an almost superhuman effort, drew himself to safety.
“Hooray!” shouted Tom.
“Bully for you, Bill!” cried Ben joyfully.
Then, as the big scout pulled his dripping form onto a rock and stood erect, Tom added: