THE DETOUR.
There could be no denying that extraordinary fortune had attended the
boys, but they were too prudent to count on a continuance of what might
be called the run of good luck, except by the utmost circumspection on
their part.
They were together once more, with their guns, ammunition and
accoutrements intact, and without either having suffered any harm.
Nothing would have been easier for them than to cross the ravine by the
fallen tree, which had answered for a foot-bridge more than once that
evening, and in doing so it was not probable that they would have run
greater risk than they had repeatedly incurred during the preceding few
hours; but the necessity for such risk did not exist, and consequently
they did not take it. Wharton suspected the truth. The Shawanoes,
knowing that the lads, or at least one of them, was in the vicinity,
were in ambush along the trail, with the expectation that they would
walk into the trap, which is exactly what they would have done had they
taken the path opposite to where they were standing while holding their
conversation.
The evident and simple course for them to follow was to make a detour,
by which they would return to the trail at a point beyond where the red
men were awaiting them.
This was more difficult than would be supposed, for the route to the
block-house was a winding one, and they were unacquainted with that
portion of the country through which they would have to make their way.
They might lose themselves altogether, though both were too good
woodsmen not to eventually reach their destination.
But having decided on what to do, they wasted no time. Their purpose was
to cross the stream above where they had met, and Wharton picked his way
steadily through the wood, with Larry at his heels. Conversation was
dangerous, and none for a time was had, since there was no call for it.
The roughness of the ground gave them trouble from the first. They were
forced to turn aside repeatedly and flank bowlders, rocks, and wild,
broken ravines, into which they would have fallen but for the alertness
of Wharton, who maintained his place a few paces in advance.
This course compelled them frequently to edge away from the stream,
which still swept between such a high wall of rocks that it was
impassable, but they never lost it altogether. By listening carefully
they could locate it, and at intervals they made their way to the
margin, to learn whether the spot for which they were looking was within
sight.
"Well, I declare!"
It was Wharton Edwards who uttered the exclamation, and his companion
pushed his way to his side to learn the cause of his excitement. As he
did so, he saw they were standing on the edge of a ravine which obtruded
itself at right angles to the course they were pursuing.
But for the fact that it contained no water, they would have believed
that it was the gorge through which ran the stream. But it was empty,
and in the shadows neither could see to the bottom of its gloomy depths.
The trees grew so near the margin that the opposite side was indistinct.
"I didn't expect to meet anything like this," added Wharton, with a sigh
of disappointment; "it means trouble."
"You can't tell till ye find out," was the somewhat superfluous remark
of Larry. "It may not run very far to the right or left, and we've had
so much experience in walking around things that this won't make much
difference one way or t'other."
"I'm afraid we'll get so mixed up that we won't be able to find our way
from it now."
"It may be a lucky thing--maybe the same."
"What do you mean?"
"Who can say where they are waiting for us? It may be five or ten miles
away, or it may be within sight of the block-house. We can get there
without setting foot in the trail agin."
"You may be partly right, Larry, though if we can strike the path five
miles away from the falls, I won't be afraid to keep it until we reach
the block-house. The risk beyond that isn't any greater than what we
have always had to run from the time we leave the settlement till we get
back again."
"It strikes me we are not gaining much time by standing here discussing
the question."
As Larry spoke he turned to the left and moved off.
"Hold on!" interrupted his companion; "that will take us farther away
than ever, and may lead us so far that we'll lose the stream
altogether."
By going to the right they approached the current that had to be passed
before they could recover the trail. Perhaps a passable spot was at
hand, and the means of crossing the smaller ravine was as likely to be
on one hand as the other.
With the same pains and labor as before they reached the stream, where
they found themselves confronted by a peculiar condition of affairs.
The banks were somewhat farther apart, but they remained perpendicular
rocks fully twenty feet in height, between which the torrent flowed so
impetuously that they would have been as helpless as a balloon in a gale
of wind. The crossing-place was still to be sought farther up the
stream.
But to reach it they must place themselves on the farther side of the
smaller ravine, which crossed their course at right angles. This opened
directly into the current, with whose surface it was nearly even. In
times of freshet or flood the dry ravine was probably a tributary
torrent of the other. At present it looked impassable, but after
studying it a few moments Wharton said:
"I believe, Larry, we can both jump that. What do you think?"
"I won't know for sartin till I try it; then I'll know, sure."
"So will we both; but the distance is less than where I made the leap."
"So it will have to be if it's mesilf that's to sail across."
The conformation of the dry ravine near the stream allowed them to see
the other side. Wharton measured the width with his eye, and then,
without a word, drew back a single step, and with little effort landed
lightly on the opposite side.
"What do you think of that, Larry?"
"It isn't much for yersilf, but I would be proud of the same."
"I'm sure there will be no trouble. There is room for you to get a
couple of yards start, and I wouldn't advise you to try it if I wasn't
sure you would succeed."
Young Murphy was plucky, but he surveyed the task before him with some
misgiving. With a depth of about twenty feet, and nothing but rock at
the bottom, a failure to land on the other side meant death or serious
injury.
He stood on the edge, and spent a minute or two peering down into the
gloomy depths. Then he looked across at his friend, who cheered him on.
"I'll thry it," he said, resolutely, and with a shake of his head.
"Fling over your gun to me; it will be easier for you to make the jump
without that than with it."
Larry tossed the rifle to his friend, who deftly caught the weapon.
Then, with the grim comicality of his nature, he threw his cap after it.
"If I do make a tumble of it, I should like ye to preserve that as a
token of remembrance."
He now braced himself for the effort. With all his strength, he could
not compare with his friend in speed and rapidity. The leap, however,
was only a moderate one, and Wharton was confident he would make it if
no mishap intervened.
And, beyond question, he would have done so had no interference taken
place. He carefully backed a rod or so from the edge of the dry ravine.
Everything was going on well, but almost on the edge he stepped on a
small pebble, unnoticed by the eye. The effect was slight, and a
spectator would hardly have seen it, but, all the same, it was just
enough to disarrange his stride, so that when the leap, which he was
forced to make, took place, it was faulty. He lost the impetus that
otherwise would have landed him on his feet on the other side with
hardly a jar to his body.
"I can't do it! I can't do it, Whart!" called the leaper at the moment
of bounding into the air, for he could not fail to know that he was
about to fall short.
The waiting friend said nothing, but braced himself for the shock, for
he, too, knew what was coming.
Larry barely missed landing, but his hands were thrown forward where his
feet should have struck, and had he received no help he would have gone
backward and down the ravine.
But it was for this that Wharton Edwards had prepared himself. Each hand
of Larry was grasped by his own, and he almost lay on his back as he
tugged to draw him out of the gorge and up on the solid support above.
Had not Wharton dug his heels into a projection, he would have had to
let go or be drawn downward with his friend, who could not help drawing
tremendously on him. Larry, however, gave great aid by throwing one
foot on top of the rock, and using that limb as a lever with which to
lift his body the rest of the short distance. This so lessened the task
that the next minute the danger was over, and the two stood beside each
other.