“Hurry, Sandy!” he blurted. “Go over and pull down that canoe. I’ll watch McCallum here until you’re ready.”
The prospector’s face was livid with rage and humiliation as Sandy departed. Suddenly, to Dick’s surprise, he opened his mouth and shouted at the top of his voice. It was a warning, clarion call that echoed and re-echoed through that quiet forest place.
Dick’s cheeks blanched. “Yell all you like,” he told McCallum. “We’ll get away just the same.”
From his position there on the ground, the outlaw glared up, his face crimson with fury, and broke into a torrent of abusive oaths.
“Yuh’ll pay for this,” he snarled. “Yuh ain’t got safe back tuh Half Way House yet. It’ll take a hull lot more than one canoe and one rifle tuh get yuh there. Remember that.”
“Yes, I’ll remember it,” said Dick tensely, “and I’ll be on the lookout for you too.”
“Yuh better,” growled the other.
Dick did not reply. Out of the corner of one eye he was watching Sandy’s progress toward the shore. The moment the canoe slid across the belt of yellow sand, he addressed himself to McCallum.
“If you get off the ground before I reach the river, I’ll take a pot-shot at you,” he threatened. “We’re desperate—and I mean business. Just try it if you like.”
Evidently McCallum took Dick at his word, for he did not so much as move a muscle as Dick sped down to the shore where Sandy awaited him. He jumped into the canoe and Sandy pushed off. Putting down his rifle, he seized one of the oars and began paddling frantically. The canoe rocked and swayed as it darted over the water. Spray dashed up around them. They swept into the central channel, desperately bucking the swift current. It was a race against death. Any moment now Wolf Brennan would return and commence firing from shore. In the glare of the sun, the river roared about them. They paddled as they had never paddled before. The shoreline gradually receded. On and on they swept. Perspiration poured out upon their foreheads and trickled into their eyes. Their breath struggled in their throats.