Straight down, feet foremost he descended, one hand clutching the arrow in his quiver, though with arm pressed close to his side. Striking the water with almost stunning force, he sunk until his feet struck bottom with a force that doubled him up in a ball. But then he shot up, springing half out of the water, half-stunned, bewildered, confused, but alive!
With barely consciousness to keep afloat, he made no effort to avoid the rocks. And perhaps 'twas as well, for the current carried him through the perilous passage in safety, though more than once the sharp, knife-like edges of the flinty rock cut through his skin.
Then the river-bed widened, and the stream flowed more quietly. Lightfoot had partially recovered from the stunning shock, and now swam rapidly on, hearing, above the sullen roar of the waters, the yells of the Osages upon the bank above. He easily divined their purpose, but felt little doubt but that he could balk it.
As the bank grew lower, he was forced to keep close in to the shore to avoid the moonlighted space beyond, and the race was so close that he could hear the rapid tread of the Osages as they rushed toward this point. Still he passed the danger in safety, and then turning upon his back he glanced back. Several Indians were already in the water, eagerly looking for some trace of their enemy. Grimly smiling, Lightfoot swam on, little heeding his aching bones.
Half a mile below, he reached the ford, mention of which has so frequently been made in this story. As he stood erect in the shallow water an acute pain ran through his left leg, and he fell forward. A quick examination told him the truth. His ankle was badly sprained; so severely that further flight was not to be thought of. To save his life he could not have walked a half-mile.
Then Boone's parting words flashed upon his mind, naming the cave by the river as the rendezvous. It was possible that his comrades were even then awaiting his coming.
Sinking down in the water Lightfoot swam toward the entrance, uttering as he did so a signal often made use of between himself and the Wood King. But no reply came; again, with the same result. He knew then that the old hunter had not arrived, and, despite his own danger, a thrill of pain agitated his mind. He had learned to almost worship the noble-hearted woodsman.
Swimming into the cavern, Lightfoot crawled up on the sandy beach, half-fainting from pain and exhaustion. His labor that night had been really Herculean.
But then he turned and peered out upon the river that lay half in darkness, half-revealed by the silvery moonlight. He gave a start and dashed the dripping hair from his eyes. Two black dots were visible upon the surface. Then two human forms reared themselves upright, standing in the shoal water. They were Indians—Osage warriors. Their object was plain. They had swam down here to intercept their foe's escape, if alive, to secure his scalp if his dead body should float down the river.
Lightfoot frowned deeply and felt of his weapons, for the darkness rendered eyesight useless. The bow was still strung, though the string was somewhat lax, from being water-soaked. Rubbing this forcibly, he succeeded in rendering it fit for use. The quiver still retained its arrows; the girdle at his waist still supported the hatchet and knife given him by the faithful Feather-Cloud. Again he smiled grimly. Though crippled, he could yet make a stern fight for life.