Separated
Slowly, as though awaking from a drugged sleep, Roy Manley came to
himself. His eyes stared upward through a screen of green foliage
tangled above him. He twitched his shoulders and felt the hard earth
beneath them. Weakly, he turned his head from side to side, trying
vainly to force his sluggish brain into activity by impressing upon
it some familiar sight, so that he might recall his situation. Of
course he knew where he was. It was just that he was tired and
couldn’t think well. In a moment it would come to him. He would lie
here a bit longer until those confounded trees stopped whirling
around, then he’d get up.
Let’s see, now. He was in the woods, that was certain. And that
murmuring in the distance--or was the whirr within his own head?
Cautiously Roy raised his hand, passed it gently over his disheveled
hair. Snakes, what a lump! How did he get that? Dully he rubbed the
spot where the bruise was and found the hair matted.
“Must have gotten a terrific sock,” he muttered. “That’s blood.
Funny it doesn’t ache. Golly, it’s cold! Better build a fire.”
He sat up uncertainly. Then he made a stupendous discovery.
“Why, I’m all wet!” he exclaimed in amazement. He fingered his soggy
vest and stared stupidly down at his soaked shoes. “How did that
happen? No wonder I’m cold! And I guess I won’t build a fire,
either, for if I’m wet the matches will be wet; that is, if I have
any. And if the matches are wet I’ll be wet--I mean the opposite--”
He snapped his fingers and shook his head impatiently. Talking to
himself like a little child! The thing to do was to find out where
he was and how he arrived here. Perhaps if he got out in the sun and
away from the shade of this tree he might be warmer. Automatically
he struggled to his feet.
A moan of pain escaped him, and he sat down suddenly, his hand
twitching to his right ankle. Broken? He moved the foot carefully,
and, although the effort was agony, he found that it was just a
little sprained. Well, he’d have to take it easy. A sprain was bad
while it lasted, but it would mend itself. There was no need of
setting it, like a fracture.
Again he arose, gently this time, and it was a relief to discover
that by favoring the injured ankle he could move about slowly.
Without knowing exactly where he was going, except that it was
warmer in the sun, he limped forward. The liquid murmur he had heard
before grew louder as he moved toward it, and presently he came in
sight of a river. It recalled nothing to him beyond the fact that he
was very thirsty, and, making his way to the bank, he threw himself
face downward and drank. Refreshed, he arose once more and looked
about him.
The opposite side of the stream was about four hundred yards away,
with no sign of help there. Turning to the left, he limped along the
shore, and found that the river broadened greatly just below him.
Following the shore line he made another discovery--that he was on
an island!
As his eye followed the rim of land he saw that it swept about in a
half circle, the other half of the ring being behind him. Again he
put his hand to his head, this time in wondering amazement. An
island! How did he get here? The river! Undoubtedly that was the
cause of his saturated clothing. But why had he gone in the water
with his clothes on? Desperately he tried to concentrate, to
remember. He closed his eyes and lashed his memory cruelly. Think!
Think! A black shape in front. Darkness. A flash of fire, blinding
in its intensity. His fingers reaching out for that black shape,
seeking to cling to it, to draw him up. Water roaring in his ears.
The rock!
Now it was coming. He must not break the thread. He must follow it
to the end. The rock. A cry, in some well-remembered voice, calling
to him to “hang on.” His arms straining to retain their hold. Then
oblivion.
But what had gone before? Had he been in a boat and fallen
overboard? That was it! The canoe! Teddy! Pop! Now memory came to
him in a flood, sweeping over him, leaving him weak and gasping for
breath. He recalled the launching of the craft in the night and the
effort to catch the rustlers they had heard planning to steal their
cattle. Then the current had seized them and his paddle had broken.
Then the rock, and after that--nothing. Now this--the island, and
he, wet and shivering, with his head cut and his ankle sprained,
limping about aimlessly!
Where were the others? A great fear struck at him, catching him by
the throat. If they had drowned! If Teddy was gone--floating face
downward on the surface of the water, silent, inert, dead! A quick
shiver passed over Roy’s frame, then he gritted his teeth. He
_would_ not think of that! Teddy had surely escaped, as he himself
had. Perhaps he had swum ashore and was even now looking for Roy.
Teddy was a strong swimmer. And when the canoe had crashed, Teddy
was in the far end. He probably had not touched the rock, but had
swum directly for shore.
Could he, too, be on this island? Hopefully, Roy threw back his head
and called loudly Teddy’s name. There was no answer. A second time,
then a third time he called. No welcome sound came back in return.
But suppose his brother had been washed ashore as he had! Clenching
his fists tightly, to withstand the pain of his injured ankle, Roy
started a circuit of the island, for he must make a search.
The island was not large, so the search was soon concluded. Roy was
alone. If Teddy had gotten ashore, he must be on the mainland; but
on which side? Their camp of the night before had been on the left
bank. If Teddy had kept his bearings, he would, of course, head for
that. As Roy remembered, the canoe had been about in the center of
the river when it foundered, so that Teddy and the others might
possibly be on the right shore.
The pain in Roy’s ankle was still great, and the boy sat down and
removed his shoe and sock. He saw that the limb was swollen, and,
hopping to the water’s edge, he soaked his already damp sock in the
stream and bound it tightly about the ankle. This should help reduce
the swelling and lessen the irritating pain. The cut on his head was
a small matter, he decided, and so gave it no attention other than
to bathe it with his wet handkerchief.
Now that the first sensation of uneasy wonderment had worn off, Roy
began to realize that he was hungry. His firearms had gone down with
the boat, so that even if there was game on the island he would have
no means of capturing it. He searched his pockets, and thankfully
his fingers closed upon his jackknife. This might be of some use.
The knife was a heavy one and the blade long. Roy balanced it in the
palm of his hand. Then, experimentally, he raised his hand over his
head and threw. The blade bit into a tree some ten feet distant.
“Haven’t lost the old eye,” he chuckled, then limped over and drew
the knife out. “Haven’t done this since Teddy and I were kids.
Golly, I’m glad I remember how to throw. Wonder if I’ve got any
string in my pocket?”
But this time his search was in vain. All he found besides the knife
were two handkerchiefs and a buffalo nickel. He looked at the coin
musingly.
“You’re not much help out here,” he muttered, with a grin. “Can’t
even buy a stamp with you. Well, maybe you’ll bring me luck. I sure
need it. Back you go,” and he replaced the five-cent piece in his
soggy pocket.
Suddenly an idea struck him. He took one of the handkerchiefs, the
one he had wet in the river, and cut the hem off with his knife.
This he tested by pulling it.
“Feels strong,” he declared to himself. “We’ll take a shot at it,
anyhow. Can’t any more than fail.”
He looked about him until he found a stick and a small dry log.
“Now, Mr. Scout, do your stuff,” he chuckled, and arranged his
implements. The strip of handkerchief he wound about the stick in
such a manner that, when made the string of a bow and sawed back and
forth, the stick spun rapidly around. Then he whittled one end of
the stick to a point, found a flat grooved rock to hold the other
end with, and bent to his task.
“Handkerchief, stay with me!” he breathed, and he started the stick
whirling in a small hole cut in his log. He had piled some fine, dry
bark shavings close to this hole, and now he watched them anxiously.
Faster and faster he twirled the stick. If the strip of cloth held,
he might-- Ah! There it was! The shavings were smoking! A little
more now!
He blew gently on his fuel and was rewarded by seeing a thready
spiral of smoke ascend. Then he cast the stick aside and fed the
tiny flame with dry leaves. Within five minutes he had a respectable
blaze going, actually a fire started! Did a wood fire ever before
send out such welcome incense? Not for Roy Manley--nor for many
another boy, perhaps, situated as he was just then.
“The boy firemaker!” he laughed, and strutted about until he came
down too hard on his sore leg. But the warmth of the flame was
grateful, for the day was cool and his wet clothes anything but
comfortable. Presently Roy removed his outer garments and spread
them around the fire. Standing near the blaze, he dried his
underthings and, after a time, dressed again with considerable
ceremony. Dry clothes are real clothes, he decided, while wet
clothes are worse than fetters. He felt better; much better.
“The next thing to do is to eat,” he told himself. Building a wall
of dirt around the fire so it could not spread, he went in search of
food, holding his knife in readiness in case an opportunity to use
it should present itself. He saw several rabbits and some squirrels,
but none of them was near enough to bring down. But at last he
espied a porcupine slowly crossing a log in front of him. Discarding
the knife in favor of a heavy stick he picked up, Roy rushed upon
the quilled animal. With one sharp blow on the head he killed it.
“That was luck!” he chuckled, looking over the queer thing that lay
there.
“We saw your brother about a month ago,” he mused, while he carried
his game back to the fire and soon prepared the beast for cooking.
“But there was no need of killing him. Teddy wanted to cart him back
and show him to Pop,” Roy ruminated. At the thought of Teddy, a
frown of anxiety crossed Roy’s face, but he quickly dismissed it.
Worrying was worse than useless. Besides, Teddy must be some place.
“Yep,” he went on absently, “ole porky sure did help me out.” Like a
great many men, he was talking to himself when alone in the woods.
And now, with the smell of meat cooking, for he was hungry and
wasted no time in preliminaries, his situation assumed a more normal
aspect. Somehow, he felt that this would turn out all right, black
as things seemed just now. When a person’s hunger is satisfied, he
looks at the world with a clearer, more optimistic vision, and the
eating of “porky” worked that sort of miracle for Roy.
When his makeshift meal was over, he breathed a sigh of relief,
yawned, and stretched lazily. The reaction from the strain he had
been under came with a rush, and now, scarcely able to keep his eyes
open, the boy threw himself full length on the ground by the river’s
edge.
For a moment he lay there, his head on his arms, thinking drowsily
that he must arouse himself and hunt Teddy. He must keep going, he
must not give in.
“Can’t let him get lost like that,” Roy muttered, forgetting that
he, too, was in trouble. “Good ole Teddy--have to find him.”
He pushed himself up with his hands and shook his head wearily,
determined to fight off fatigue. But he was so tired--so tired. If
he could only sleep--
Above him sounded a rush of wings. A shrill scream sounded almost in
his ear, and he felt a fierce, slashing wind surround him. Roy’s
heart leaped into his throat, and he awoke now with a terrific jolt,
his pulses hammering. Once more the scream sounded.
With an effort Roy rolled over. Then, swift as light, he threw up an
arm to protect his face.
Directly over him hovered a huge eagle, talons outstretched, beak
open, eyes glaring fiercely, ready for attack!