In the morning he went through the rapids without incident. A mile below this the main channel passed through a narrow gap between two islands. When halfway through, and at the narrowest point, a rope settled about his shoulders and he was jerked violently off the raft.
After a short struggle he got his arms free and started to swim for the shore. A small raft passed him on which stood Mike Haggart.
"How d'ye like it, huh?" he snarled and hit Lucky Jim a blow on the head with his pole in passing.
For some time thereafter the world was dark. He came to lying on the beach, the rope still about his waist. He struggled to his feet and stared downstream. He was just in time to see Chenoa Pete spring aboard his raft from the deck of a smaller one. He steered it into the eddy until Mike Haggart came along and joined him. Five minutes later they disappeared round a bend.
"This looks bad," muttered Lucky Jim. "And of course they'll drift clear to Fort Gibbon and catch a boat there for the Outside. Poor Dad." He wound the rope about his waist.
He crossed the island and waded the channel between it and the flat. He started walking down the bank, because there seemed nothing else that he could do. Meantime, he was thinking, and thinking the hardest he knew how.
Thirty minutes later he paused beside the charred remains of a camp-fire. He looked about him. He had a remarkable memory for landmarks.
"This is where I camped four days out from Totatla City last March," he said to himself. "Let's see."