DOWN THE CAÑON.
At the upper end of the cañon of Lost River the water is smooth and the
rocky banks are low enough to permit a canoe to be launched without much
trouble.
The canoe was lowered to the water by means of ropes, and into it, when
it was anchored, was put the arms and ammunition, together with the food
supply, and other things, which the scout had decided to take. He had
provided amply, for he did not know just where he was going, what he
should meet, nor how long he should be gone.
When the four men were in the canoe it sank low in the water, yet it was
still quite buoyant, and, though a large canoe, easily handled.
Klamath John took the bow paddle and pushed the canoe away from the
rocky shore.
The canoe swung lightly along in the quiet current, but soon the water
quickened its pace and the boat began to dance on its way, still with
feathery lightness, yet at a speed that made careful paddle work
necessary.
Buffalo Bill crouched just behind Klamath John, where he could watch
him. The scout dipped his paddle with ease and skill, his eyes on the
current ahead, where at intervals rocks showed. Behind him was Cudjo,
while Flynn handled a paddle in the stern.
“Whoosh!” yelled Flynn, as the rocky walls began to shoot past. “An’
it’s now that we do be goin’ some.”
“Starboard!” yelled Klamath John. “Put ’er to starboard!”
He threw his strength on the oar, and was aided by Buffalo Bill. The
canoe veered and whisked by the big rock that had seemed to leap out of
the water to meet it.
Higher and still higher rose the frowning cañon walls, until the cañon
grew dark as twilight. And still the light canoe sped ever faster, the
walls speeding by at a pace that soon became frightful. The river roared
in its narrow channel, and at times the torn water rose and flashed into
whitecaps.
The canoe soon plunged into the cañon rapids. Buffalo Bill had looked
down upon those rapids as well as he could from the tops of the walls,
and had decided that, though swift, and even dangerous, the canoe could
navigate them. But they were even swifter and wilder than he had
thought.
“She gets quieter farther down,” Klamath John shouted, by way of
encouragement. “Just hold her to it, and we’ll go through all right.”
“Whoosh!” howled Flynn. “But this is an iligant adventure. Gold hunters,
is it? By me sowl, if we git through this, we’ll be airnin’ all the gold
we’ll git.”
Yet the Irishman was now in his element. Adventure was as the breath of
his nostrils. He had chafed at the dullness of the town of Klamath. This
suited him, and he hoped for even better things beyond.
But the darky who crouched on the thwart in front of him, though he
clutched his paddle and tried to obey the commands of Buffalo Bill, was
sending up a prayer for safety, while his teeth were chattering and a
grayish shade seemed to have crept into the black of his face. Cudjo was
heartily wishing himself well out of it.
Yet if the occupants of the canoe had desired to retreat, that was now
impossible. The only thing that could be done was to hold the canoe in
the channel, as near the center as possible, and let it drive, guiding
it as skillfully as possible round rocks and other obstructions.
A half mile farther down the stream seemed to be sown with rocks. They
were everywhere, and they appeared almost to leap at the bobbing bow of
the canoe, as if bent on splitting it, and dragging it down.
But Buffalo Bill and Klamath John were practiced canoemen, and they sent
the canoe round every obstruction with such skill and good judgment that
its sides were not even grazed.
For two miles this terrific pace held. Then before them they saw where
the stream forked, split into two branches by a great rock.
A surge of green water slipped by on each side of this sharp wedge of
granite and went plunging on, to become lost soon in the mist that
blanketed the surface of the wild river.
“Which channel?” roared Klamath John, poising his paddle in hesitation.
“The right!” Buffalo Bill shouted back. “The letter said the right!”
“Aye! So it did! The right it is!”
He dipped and pulled, and the scout did the same, their efforts seconded
by the negro and the Irishman.
The wedge of granite rose right before the canoe, and it seemed the
frail shell would dash against it; then the canoe slipped past, and went
plunging down the right channel, where the waves frothed and roared and
the mist hung heavily.
The speed of the canoe became even more rapid now. It quivered and
reeled under the impact of waves that slid from one black granite wall
to the other and back again, and there were moments when it seemed that
it would be dashed into splinters against these walls.
Klamath John began to show evidences of fright, while hitherto he had
been as cool and courageous as the dauntless scout.
The mist lifted somewhat, and then, straight ahead, was beheld a black
opening, toward which the canoe sped with arrowy swiftness.
Klamath John appeared to lose his head when he saw that black hole.
“Cody, we’ve taken the wrong channel!” he yelled, and he half rose to
his feet. “We’re dead men! We made a mistake back there. We’re in Lost
River! Good heavens, we’re in Lost River!”
He dropped his paddle, which the scout caught, thus keeping it from
going overboard.
“Sit down!” the scout shouted at him. “Sit down, or you’ll have us all
into the water!”
Klamath John did not obey. He stood up, swaying about in the plunging
canoe, rendering the task of guiding it difficult, as well as
threatening it with destruction.
“Sit down!” Buffalo Bill yelled at him.
The situation was so desperate that when Klamath John did not sit down,
the scout caught him by the coat and hurled him down.
Klamath John was up again instantly, swaying about and making the canoe
lurch so violently that it was in danger of capsizing.
But a remarkable revelation had come, for as Klamath John fell the dark
mustache and imperial was torn from his face, revealing youthful and
unbearded features.
The disclosure was almost paralyzing, for Klamath John’s disguise had
been so exceedingly good and clever that until that minute even the
sharp eyes of Buffalo Bill had been deceived by it.
“Sit down!” the scout yelled again.
“We is all dead men!” Cudjo shrieked. He was staring at the beardless
face of Klamath John, the paddle had dropped from his nerveless fingers,
and he acted as if he meant to leap out of the boat.
“Shoot the divil!” Mickey Flynn yelled.
But Mickey did not forget his paddle, and for the first minute in which
that stupefying surprise lasted, the strong young Irishman did almost as
much as the scout in keeping the canoe from being hurled to destruction.
“So, you’re a fraud, eh!” the scout shouted. “Well, if we’re in Lost
River and are going to death, you’ll go with us!”
Klamath John seemed to lose his head as that black hole of a tunnel was
brought close at hand. He stood up again, balancing himself, as if he
thought of jumping over into the water. He threw down his hat, snatched
from his head a wig of long hair, howled as if he had suddenly become an
insane devil, and refused to obey the orders of the scout.
Buffalo Bill lifted his paddle, while his other hand stole back as if to
get out his revolver for the purpose of shooting Klamath John. But a
violent lurching of the canoe caused him to grip the paddle again and
thrust it into the boiling stream.
“Sit down!” he yelled, in desperation. “You lunatic, sit down!”
The dark hole of the tunnel was right before them now. Into that hole
the river rushed with a roar that was frightful.
Mickey Flynn and Buffalo Bill were bending to their paddles, straining
until the stout ash blades bent as if they would break, straining to
hold the canoe steady and to keep it in the center of the current. They
had no time to give to Klamath John. Cudjo was but a bit of helpless
lumber. Overcome by terror, he had sunk down in the bottom of the canoe,
where, crouching on his knees, he prayed frantically.
Klamath John yelled again as the canoe shot for the black hole, which it
did as if it were a race horse rushing to leap an obstruction.
As Klamath John yelled in that wild way, he sprang straight out into the
air. He clutched something that swung dangling in the mist over the
mouth of the tunnel.
Buffalo Bill saw that it was a rope, and that Klamath John had seized it
and was drawing himself up hand over hand. He heard Klamath John yell
again, in a different key—a yell that seemed to speak of triumph—and
then the canoe went into the dark hole, rushing to apparent destruction.
“Hold hard!” Buffalo Bill yelled to Mickey Flynn.
“Har-rd it is!” Flynn screeched back. “Kape her in the middle! Kape her
in the middle! Pl’ase goodness, if we’re goin’ into the cinter of the
airth we’re goin’ in a hurry.”
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