A BRAVE RESCUE
When Hubert Stane took stock of his position, after his captors had
left him, he found himself in a country which was strange to him, and
spent the best part of a day in ascertaining his whereabouts. The flow
of the wide river where the camp had been pitched told him nothing, and
it was only after he had climbed a high hill a mile and a half away
from the river that he began to have any indication of his whereabouts.
Then with the country lying before him in a bird's-eye view he was able
to learn his position. There was more than one river in view, and a
chain of small lakes lay between one of them and the river where he had
been left by his captors. From the last of those lakes a long portage,
such as had been made on the last day but one of the journey, would
bring them to a river which a few miles away joined the river on the
bank of which he had been left to shift for himself. Studying the
disposition of the country carefully, he reached the conclusion that by
a roundabout journey he had been brought to the river on the upper
reaches of which he had his permanent camp; and as the conviction grew
upon him, he made his way back to the canoe, and began to work his way
upstream.
As he paddled, the problem of his deportation exercised his mind; and
nowhere could he find any explanation of it, unless it had to do with
Miskodeed. But that explanation failed as he recalled the words of her
father: "It is an order." Who had given the order? He thought in turn
of the factor, of Sir James Yardely, of Gerald Ainley. The first two
were instantly dismissed, but the thought of Ainley remained fermenting
in his mind. It was an odd coincidence that he should have been
attacked whilst awaiting Ainley's coming, and in view of his one-time
friend's obvious reluctance to an interview and of his own urgent
reasons for desiring it; the suspicion that Ainley was the man who had
issued the order for his forcible deportation grew until it became
almost a conviction.
"I will find out about this--and the other thing," he said aloud. "I
can't go back now, but sooner or later my chance will come. The cur!"
That evening he camped at the foot of a fall, which he had heard of,
but never before seen, and spent the whole of the next day in portaging
his belongings to navigable water, and on the following evening well
beyond the rocky ramparts, where the river ran so swiftly, made his
camp, happily conscious that now the river presented no barrier for two
hundred miles.
As he sat smoking outside his little tent, an absent, thoughtful look
upon his face, his eyes fixed dreamily on the river, his mind reverted
once more to the problem of recent happenings, and as he considered it,
there came to him the picture of Miskodeed as he had seen her running
towards him between the willows just before the blow which had knocked
him unconscious. She had cried to him to put him on his guard, and the
apprehension in her face as he remembered it told him that she knew of
the ill that was to befall him. His mind dwelt on her for a moment as
he visioned her face with its bronze beauty, her dark, wild eyes
flashing with apprehension for him, and as he did so his own eyes
softened a little. He recalled the directness of her speech in their
first conversation and smiled at the naïveté of her estimate of
himself. Then the smile died, leaving the absent, thoughtful look more
pronounced, and in the same moment the vision of Miskodeed was
obliterated by the vision of Helen Yardely--the woman of his own race,
fair and softly-strong, and as different as well as could be from the
daughter of the wilds.
Again, as he recalled the steady scrutinizing glance of her grey eyes,
he felt the blood rioting in his heart, and for a moment his eyes were
alight with dreams. Then he laughed in sudden bitterness.
"What a confounded fool I am!" he said. "A discharged convict----"
The utterance was suddenly checked; and an interested look came on his
face. There was something coming down the river. He rose quickly to his
feet in order to get a better view of the object which had suddenly
floated into his line of vision. It was a canoe. It appeared to be
empty, and thinking it was a derelict drifting from some camp up river,
he threw himself down again, for even if he salved it, it could be of
no possible use to him. Lying there he watched it as it drifted nearer
in the current, wondering idly whence it had come. Nearer it came,
swung this way and that by various eddies, and drifting towards the
further side of the river where about forty yards above his camp a mass
of rock broke the smooth surface of the water. He wondered whether the
current would swing it clear; and now watched it with interest since he
had once heard a river-man declare that anything that surrendered
itself completely to a current would clear obstructions. He had not
believed the theory at the time, and now before his eyes it was
disproved; for the derelict swung straight towards the rocks, then
twisted half-way round as it was caught by some swirl, and struck a
sharp piece of rock broadside on.
Then happened a totally unexpected thing. As the canoe struck, a girl
who had been lying at the bottom, raised herself suddenly, and stared
at the water overside, one hand clutching the gunwale. A second later
the canoe drifted against another rock and suddenly tilted, throwing
the girl into the broken water.
By this time, taken by surprise though he was, Stane was on his feet,
and running down the bank. He did not stop to launch his canoe but just
as he was flung himself into the water, and started to swim across the
river, drifting a little with the current, striving to reach a point
where he could intercept the girl as she drifted down. It was no light
task he had set himself, for the current was strong, and carried him
further than he intended to go, but he was in front of the piece of
human flotsam which the river was claiming for its prey, and as it came
nearer he stretched a hand and grasped at it. He caught a handful of
chestnut hair that floated like long weed in the river's tide, and the
next moment turned the girl over on her back. She was unconscious, but
as he glimpsed at her face, his heart leaped, for it was the face of
that fair English girl of whom but a few minutes before he had been
dreaming. For a second he was overcome with amazement, then stark fear
leapt in his heart as he looked at the closed eyes and the white,
unconscious face.
That fear shook him from his momentary inactivity. He looked for
something else to hold by, and finding nothing, twisted the long strand
of hair he had gripped into a rope, and held it with his teeth. Then he
glanced round. The current had carried him further than he had
realized, and now quickened for its rush between the rocky ramparts, so
that there was some danger of their being caught and swept through. As
he realized that, he began to exert all his strength, striking across
the current for the nearest bank, which was the one furthest from his
camp.
The struggle was severe, and the girl's body drifting against him
impeded his movements terribly. It seemed impossible that he could make
the bank, and the ramparts frowned ominously ahead. He was already
wondering what the chances were of making the passage through in
safety, and was half-inclined to surrender to the current and take the
risks ahead, when his eye caught that which spurred him to fresh
efforts.
A hundred yards downstream a huge tree, by some collapse of the bank,
had been flung from the position where it had grown for perhaps a
hundred years, and now lay with its crown and three-quarters of its
trunk in the river. Its roots, heavily laden with earth, still clung to
the bank and fought with the river for its prey. If he could reach that
Stane realized that he might yet avoid the perilous passage between the
bastions of rock. He redoubled his efforts against the quickening
current, and by supreme exertions pulled himself into a position where
the current must carry him and the girl against the tree.
In a moment, as it seemed, they had reached it, and now holding the
girl's hair firmly in one hand, with the other he clutched at one of
the branches. He caught it, and the next moment was unexpectedly ducked
overhead in the icy water. He came up gasping, and then understood. The
tree was what in the voyageur's nomenclature is known as a "sweeper."
Still held by its roots it bobbed up and down with the current, and the
extra strain of his weight and the girl's had sunk it deeper in the
water. It still moved up and down, and he had not finished spluttering
when a new danger asserted itself. The suck of the current under the
tree was tremendous. It seemed to Stane as if a thousand malevolent
hands were conspiring to drag him under; and all the time he was afraid
lest the unconscious girl should be entangled among the submerged
branches.
Lying on his back holding the bough that he had caught, at the same
time steadying himself with a foot against another branch, he swiftly
considered the situation.
It was impossible that he could pull himself on to the trunk from the
upper side. Even had he been unhampered by the unconscious girl that
would have been difficult, the suck of the current under the tree being
so great. He would have to get to the other side somehow. To do that
there were new risks to be taken. He would have to let loose the branch
which he held, drift through the other interlacing branches, and get a
hold on the further side of the trunk.
It was risky, and beyond was the water swirling for its race between
the bastions. But he could do nothing where he was and, setting his
teeth, he let go his hold. In a second, as it seemed, the tree leaped
like a horse and the water swept him and the girl under the trunk.
Scarcely were they under when his free arm shot out and flung itself
round a fresh bough which floated level with the water. Immediately the
bough bobbed under, but he was prepared for that, and after a brief
rest, he set the girl's hair between his teeth once more, and with both
hands free began to work from bough to bough. One that he clutched gave
an ominous crack. It began to sag in a dangerous way, and at the fork
where it joined a larger branch a white slit appeared and began to grow
wider. He watched it growing, his eyes quite steady, his mind alert for
the emergency that it seemed must arrive, but the branch held for the
space of time that he needed it; and it was with heartfelt relief that
he grasped a larger bough, and the next moment touched bottom with his
feet.
At that he shifted his hold on the girl, towing her by a portion of her
dress, and two minutes later, lifted her beyond the water-line on the
high shelving bank. Then, as he looked in her white face and marked the
ashen lips, a panic of fear fell on him. Dropping to his knees he took
her wrist in his hand and felt for her pulse. At first he thought that
she was dead, then very faint and slow he caught the beat of it. The
next moment he had her in his arms and was scrambling up the bank.
At the top he had the good fortune to stumble on a trail that was
evidently used by Indians or other dwellers in the wilderness, probably
by men portaging the length of bad water down the river. It was a rough
enough path, yet it made his task immeasurably easier. But even with
its unexpected aid, the journey was a difficult one, and he staggered
with exhaustion when he laid the girl down upon the rough grass at a
point not quite opposite his own camp.
Gasping he stood looking at her until he had recovered his breath, the
girl unconscious of his gaze; then when he felt equal to the task, he
plunged again into the river and swam to his own camp. A few minutes
later he returned in his canoe, carrying with him a field water-bottle
filled with medical brandy.
The girl lay as he had left her, and his first action was to pour a few
drops of brandy between her parted lips, and that done he waited,
chafing her hands. A minute later the long-lashed eyelids fluttered and
opened, and the grey eyes looked wildly round without seeing him, then
closed again and a long sigh came from her as she lapsed into
unconsciousness anew. At that he wasted no more time. Lifting her, he
carried her down to the canoe, and paddling across the river, bore her
up to his own camp, and laid her down where the heat of the fire would
reach her, then he administered further brandy and once more waited.
Again the eyelids fluttered and opened, and the girl looked round with
wild, uncomprehending gaze, then her eyes grew steady, and a moment
later fixed themselves upon Stane. He waited, saw wonder light them,
then, in a voice that shook, the girl asked: "How did--I--come here?"
"That you know best yourself," answered the young man, cheerfully. "I
fished you out of the river, that is all I know." The girl made as if
to reply; but Stane prevented her.
"No, don't try to talk for a little while. Wait! Take a little more of
this brandy."
He held it towards her in a tin cup, and with his hand supporting her
head, the girl slowly sipped it. By the time she had finished, a little
blood was running in her cheeks and her lips were losing their ashen
colour. She moved and made as though to sit up.
"Better wait a little longer," he said, quietly.
"No," she said, "I feel better."
She lifted herself into a sitting posture, and he thoughtfully rolled a
small sack of beans to support her back, then she looked at him with a
quick questioning gaze.
"I have seen you before, have I not? You are the man who was at Fort
Malsun, aren't you--the man whom Mr. Ainley used to know?"
"Yes," he answered with sudden bitterness, "I am the man whom Ainley
used to know. My name is Hubert Stane, and I am a discharged convict,
as I daresay he told you."
The sudden access of colour in Helen Yardely's face, and the look in
her eyes, told him that he had guessed correctly, but the girl did not
answer the implied question. Instead she looked at the river and
shuddered.
"You--fished me out," she said, her eyes on the rocks across the river.
"Was it there the canoe overturned?"
"Yes," he answered, "you struck the rocks."
"I must have been dozing," she replied. "I remember waking and seeing
water pouring into the canoe, and the next moment I was in the river.
You saw me, I suppose?"
Stane nodded. "I was sitting here and saw the canoe coming down the
river. I thought it was empty until it struck the rocks and you
suddenly sat up."
"And then you came after me?"
"Yes," he answered lightly.
Her grey eyes looked at him carefully, noted his dripping clothes and
dank hair, and then with sudden comprehension asked: "How did you get
me? Did you do it with your canoe or----"
"The canoe wouldn't have been any use," he interrupted brusquely. "It
would have upset if I had tried to get you out of the water into it."
"Then you swam for me?" persisted the girl.
"Had to," he answered carelessly. "Couldn't let you drown before my
eyes--even if I am a convict!"
Helen Yardely flushed a little. "I do not think you need mention that
again. I am very grateful to a brave man."
"Oh, as to that----" he began; but she interrupted him.
"Tell me where you got me? I remember nothing about it."
He looked down the river.
"As near as I can tell you, it was by that clump of firs there; though
I was not able to land for quite a long distance beyond. You were
unconscious, and I carried you along the opposite bank, then swam
across for my canoe and ferried you over. There you have the whole
story." He broke off sharply, then before she could offer comment he
spoke again: "I think it would be as well if you could have a change of
clothes. It is not cold, but to let those you have dry on you might
bring on all sorts of ills. There are some things of mine in the tent.
I will put them handy, and you can slip them on whilst I take a stroll.
You can then dry your own outfit."
He did not wait for any reply, but walked to the little fly-tent, and
three or four minutes later emerged, puffing a pipe. He waved towards
the tent, and turning away began to walk rapidly up river. Helen
Yardely sat where she was for a moment looking after him. There was a
very thoughtful expression on her face.
"The whole story!" she murmured as she rose to her feet. "I wonder?
That man may have been a convict; but he is no braggart."
She walked to the tent, and with amused eyes looked at the articles of
attire obviously arranged for her inspection. A grey flannel shirt, a
leather belt, a pair of Bedford cord breeches, a pair of moccasins,
miles too large for her, and a mackinaw jacket a little the worse for
wear.
She broke into sudden laughter as she considered them, and after a
moment went to the tent-door and shyly looked up the river. The figure
of her rescuer was still receding at a rapid rate. She nodded to
herself, and then dropping the flap of the tent, faced the problem of
the unaccustomed garments.