Stonor found the gun that Imbrie had dropped in the water. From the beach they watched to see what the breed woman would do.
“When she gets near the rapids she’ll either have to let go Imbrie or be carried over,” Stonor said grimly.
But the woman proved to be not without her resources. Still with one hand clutched in Imbrie’s hair, she contrived to wriggle out of the upper part of her dress. Out of this she made a sling, passing it under the unconscious man’s arms, and tying it to the thwart of the dug-out. She then paddled ashore and dragged the man out on the beach. There they saw her stand looking at him helplessly. Save for the dug-out she was absolutely empty-handed, without so much as a match to start a fire with.
Presently she loaded the inert body in the dug-out, and, getting in herself, came paddling back towards the island. Stonor grimly awaited her, with the gun over his arm. The dusk was thickening, and Clare built up the fire.
When she came near, Stonor said, raising the gun: “Come no closer till I give you leave.”
She raised her hands. “I give up,” she said apathetically. “I’ve got to have fire for him, blankets. Maybe he is dead.”
“He’s only half-drowned,” said Stonor. “I can bring him to if you do what I tell you.”
“What do you want?”
“Throw your ammunition-belt ashore, then your knife, and the two knives that Imbrie carries in his belt.”
She obeyed. Stonor gratefully buckled on the belt. She landed, and permitted her hands to be bound. Stonor then pulled the dug-out out on the stones, and turning it over rolled Imbrie on the bottom of it until he got most of the water out of him. Then, laying him on his back, after half an hour’s unremitting work, he succeeded in inducing respiration. A little colour returned to Imbrie’s face, and in the end he opened his eyes and looked stupidly around him. At these signs of returning animation the enigma of a woman suddenly lowered her head and broke into a dry hard sobbing.