Out of the mélée on the raft sprang a figure in rags bawling blue murder. There was a splash. Lucky Jim had just paused long enough to note that it was Chenoa Pete that was struggling in the water, and bawling still. He was followed a moment later by Mike Haggart. Neither men had had a chance to seize a gun. The dogs had kept them too busy.
Lucky Jim raced ahead a short distance then plunged into the water. The dogs welcomed him with yowls of joy as he climbed aboard the raft. His pokes of dust still lay in the bottom of his empty sled.
"Fine," he said.
He turned and looked back. Chenoa Pete was already ashore and Mike Haggart was climbing the bank. He waved his hand to them.
"You're the poorest fish that ever came out of this river!" he called to them.
He docked at Totatla City an hour later. The Dusty Diamond was at the wharf, bow downstream. Lucky Jim hitched the dogs to the sled and set out for Dad Manslow's cabin. The old man came to the door when he heard his voice.
"Well, Dad, here I am!" cried Lucky Jim. "And, believe me, my usual well-known luck has been on the job every minute since I left you. On the square, Dad! I'm the luckiest guy——"
Dad's grin, an ear-to-ear affair, cut him short.
"You tell that dodgasted rubbish about your luck to the sit-downers and stove-huggers!" he exclaimed. "I know what prospectors' luck is. It's guts an' gumption! Did yuh have any trouble findin' the bar or anything?"