There, on the shore of Whirlpool River, Roy Manley looked down upon his kill—looked down with eyes from which all anger, all blood-lust had fled, and which held only pity for the death of such a splendid creature.
Silently he wiped his knife clean, shut the blade, and replaced it in his pocket. Then, for the first time, he saw the long cut on his arm, and felt the stiffening of his shoulder where the eagle had struck. Stumbling, he made his way to the water’s edge, and, ripping the remnants of his shirt from him, bathed the wounds. Strange that he felt no pain, but instead a growing wonder that he, and not the bird, had been the conqueror in that mighty battle. He had a queer inclination to kneel for a moment and do homage to a worthy fighter, but the feeling passed and the reaction slowly set in. He felt himself grow faint, and he staggered from the water. A growing blackness encompassed him, as though night were coming. A horrible nausea seized him, close to the dead bird, and he sank upon the earth, already all but unconscious.
The sun was at its zenith when Roy once more opened his eyes. This time there was no wonderment in them. He knew definitely and with certainty what had happened. And if he needed proof that it was not all a dream—and indeed, somehow it did create in his mind a sensation akin to a nightmare—there was the bird lying at his side. Yes, it had actually occurred—he, practically weaponless, had fought an eagle and won.
He sat up, moving his arms gingerly. Everything appeared to be in working order. He examined the cuts, and saw that they had been but superficial and had already stopped bleeding.
Then he grinned.
“Bids are open for the moving picture rights,” he chuckled. “First I get in a scrap with a bear and then an eagle! But the boy, here, nothing daunted, immediately enters the cave of the lion. Isn’t there a lion somewhere around?”
Slowly he got to his feet. Then he noticed the wet sock tied about his ankle. Except for this, he would have forgotten that the limb had ever been hurt.
“The pain must have been scared out of me,” he said aloud, and laughed again. His laughter was not hysterical. It was the wholesome amusement of a boy who had a sense of humor, and the reaction from his late suspense.
Then his mind leaped to thoughts of Teddy and the others.
“They’ll be worried stiff,” he declared. “They’ll think I’m drowned, sure. I’d better find some way of getting back to them.” Never an idea that his brother and Pop and Bug Eye might have failed to reach the shore—might have been caught in the current, and killed. These sombre thoughts had gone from him completely.