“Isn’t that white people in that canoe——”
“It is!” echoed Cliff, running to his side. “And it’s——”
“Tom!” shrilled Nicky, dancing about until the pilot, watching the shifting currents, had to catch his coat and prevent him from toppling off the sharp bow.
Tom it was, with Bill, both alive, and quite hearty.
The story of their exploits was a thrilling one. They had been in the first throes of suffering from a violent poison administered in, or with their food by the Indians conducting them through the mountains.
“Tom recalled that I had a bottle of white vaseline in my pack,” Bill said, “and he crawled to it and got the stuff. It was not very easy to take, but we each got some down, and it melted and made a sort of oily coating, or else it acted as an emetic, for we were very sick, and almost wore ourselves out struggling—and we couldn’t get enough water!”
“It was lucky for us that we were right by the stream, almost in it,” Tom added. “The Indians didn’t move a hand to help. If we hadn’t kept sense enough to hold onto our pistols I guess they would have jumped on us. We found out later that they had picked some sort of mushroom—‘fruit of the earth’ it’s called, in the lower levels, and put some in folds of the pork meat when they gave it to us.”
“How did you find that out?” Nicky demanded.
“Did they confess?” asked Cliff.
“Toosa told us,” Tom explained. “He claims that he knew by his magic spells that we were in danger, and that he came to save us; and for that he expected Bill to give him Henry’s rifle when we left—which Bill was glad to do. But he and I privately think it was more chance than planning that brought him just in time to help us.”