A RACING STREAM
The situation, though alarming, did not dismay Mr. Livingston or the two
Scouts. Knowing that the washed-out log bridge was not far from the
mining camp, they reasoned that Willie and War soon would become aware
of their plight.
“We’re stranded here for awhile, that’s certain,” Mr. Livingston
commented, staring at the foaming waters. “It won’t be easy to build
another bridge across that span.”
“Assuming that Rhodes will assign his men to the task,” added Ken
gloomily. “He’ll probably be tickled pink that we’re bottled up here.”
“Queer that bridge went out just when it did,” muttered Jack. “It seemed
sturdy and secure early this morning when we passed over. Guess the
current must be even stronger than we figured.”
For an hour, the Scouts took turns flashing signals with their lights.
The distant mining camp was completely blocked from view by trees and
rocks. They had little hope that the flashes would be seen, but did
think that War and Willie, alarmed by their long absence, might venture
toward the river to investigate.
“We’re bushed,” Mr. Livingston declared, after the effort to attract
attention had proved futile. “Let’s try to sleep. In the morning, we can
find a way to get help or to rescue ourselves.”
Following Phillipe’s example, Ken and Jack sought shelter. The night was
bitterly cold. Nevertheless, in their thickly lined sleeping bags, they
spent fairly comfortable hours.
When they awakened at dawn, Mr. Livingston had the fire built, and was
preparing a hot breakfast.
Stretching their cramped limbs, Jack and Ken went down to the river to
wash.
As they bent down to dash the icy water on their faces, the torrent
rushed past, foaming and hissing.
“This stream is plenty swift,” Ken remarked. “Too deep to wade across,
and a fellow couldn’t hope to swim it, either.”
“Rapids and whirlpools below here,” Jack reminded him. “Rhodes told me
that. He probably was telling the truth too.”
“It’s darn funny War and Willie don’t take any interest in what became
of us,” Ken went on, scanning the rugged shoreline. “Wouldn’t you think
they’d see the smoke from our fire?”
“Probably not up yet,” Jack rejoined with forced cheer. “You know how
War is—with no one to pull him out of bed, he’d sleep until noon.”
“Even so, he and Willie must have realized that something went wrong
with our plans. Common sense would tell ’em we’re in trouble.”
“Maybe not, Ken. You remember, Mr. Livingston told them we might be gone
over night.”
“What bothers me, is how are they going to help us even after they
discover our situation? One can’t build a bridge in five minutes.”
“We’ll have to risk a raft probably.”
“And maybe be swept down into the whirlpool. No thanks!”
The two Explorers rejoined Mr. Livingston and Phillipe, who were dishing
up breakfast. The meal revived everyone’s spirits.
“What’s the plan?” Jack questioned the Scout leader.
“We’ll send up some smoke signals,” Mr. Livingston advised. “That should
draw attention to our plight.”
The morning was clear and windless. Knowing that a column of smoke would
rise high, the Scouts were hopeful that despite the rim of mountain
peaks, it would be visible at the mining camp.
“War and Willie will soon know we’re in trouble,” Ken asserted, starting
to gather an armful of dry twigs.
Jack already was accumulating a pile of green leaves and had dampened a
blanket at the stream.
With everything in readiness, the group built up their fire and when it
was burning briskly, threw on the leaves. A heavy column of smoke arose.
After a moment, Jack and Ken interrupted the smoke by means of the
blanket. Over and over they flashed a distress signal.
“We should be getting a reply soon now,” Jack asserted, anxiously
scanning the sky in the direction of the mining camp.
For fifteen minutes, the Scouts kept up the signals. Then, as the smoke
column faded away, they continued to watch for a response. None came.
“Our signals must have been seen at the camp,” Mr. Livingston declared.
“I can’t understand it. What’s happened to War and Willie?”
More disturbed than at any time since they had found themselves
stranded, the Scout leader went down to the stream’s edge. He studied
the swift current and then directed attention to the spot where the log
bridge had washed out. Only a few broken wires remained. These he
carefully examined.
“This bridge didn’t wash out,” he told Jack, who had followed him over
the slippery rocks.
“It was weakened deliberately?”
“Looks that way, Jack.” Mr. Livingston showed him where the wires had
been snipped with a cutter.
“Rhodes?”
“I’d guess so. He may be on his feet by this time, or he could have
ordered his men to let the bridge go.”
“Willie and War wouldn’t have stood for that.”
“Not if they could have prevented it. But they haven’t answered our
smoke signals. I’m afraid they may be in trouble too.”
“It might suit Rhodes very well to have us stranded on this side of the
river.”
“We know he didn’t swallow our story about looking for Appleby Corning,”
Mr. Livingston nodded. “He must have suspected we were searching for the
old mine. Now he intends to keep us stranded until he and his wife can
get away.”
“We’re stranded, all right,” Jack muttered, staring at the boiling
waters. “No big trees close by, even if we could fell one and cross on
its trunk.”
“We can’t stay here much longer,” Mr. Livingston said. “Willie and War
may need us as much as we need them. We’ve got to get back to camp!”
“A raft?”
“It’s our best bet, I think. We’re all good swimmers, with exception of
Phillipe. The current is swift, but I think we can make it.”
The Scouts set to work, pegging out a rounded shape, somewhat smaller
than a waterproof tarp included in their equipment. This accomplished,
they used dry twigs and small pieces of wood to fill in between the
pegs, and lashed it all firmly together with stout twine.
Next, they built a floor of webbed sticks and then removed the pegs.
Finally the bundle was slid onto the waterproof tarp which was lashed
securely in place around the circle. As the last step, they attached a
long rope.
“Not a bad little raft,” Jack declared, surveying the finished job. “She
should carry one of us at a time without trouble.”
Mr. Livingston offered to go first, but the others would not have it so.
Jack insisted that he was the strongest swimmer, and after some
argument, the Scout leader reluctantly agreed that he might make the
initial trip. Phillipe, meanwhile, had hacked out a crude paddle.
With Ken and Mr. Livingston holding an end of the rope, Jack settled
himself firmly on the circular tarp raft, and shoved off.
The fast current caught the craft, whirling it. For a minute, Jack was
afraid he was going under. Icy water splashed over his legs. The awkward
craft twisted and turned in the grasp of the racing stream.
Paddling desperately, he regained control. Without disaster, he reached
the opposite shore, though some distance down stream. Ken, Phillipe and
Mr. Livingston promptly pulled the raft back to their side of the shore.
The Scout leader next made the trip across, followed by Ken.
Phillipe, desperately afraid of the racing water, had to be coaxed
before he too attempted the stream.
All went well until the miner was close to shore. Then unexpectedly, the
make-shift paddle snapped, leaving him with a useless stub of wood.
A gasp of horror escaped his lips as the current viciously seized the
little craft.
“Throw the rope!” shouted Jack, running along the jagged rocks at the
stream’s edge.
Paralyzed with fear, Phillipe sat frozen. He fancied he could hear the
roar of rapids below and was certain he would be swept to his doom.
“Throw the rope!” Jack yelled again. “Quick!”
Recovering from paralysis, Phillipe suddenly hurled the free end toward
shore. His throw was powerful. To the relief of the Scouts, the rope
fell on the rocks, and they were able to seize it. Fighting the current,
they slowly pulled the raft to safety.
Dripping wet and shivering from terror, Phillipe stumbled out onto
shore.
“_Gracias Senors_,” he mumbled, collapsing in a shivering heap. “You
save my life!”
“We may have saved you a wild ride down the canyon,” Jack conceded as he
salvaged the water-soaked tarp. “This rope is badly frayed. A few more
hard jerks against the sharp rocks and it would have been cut in half.”
After wringing out their damp clothes, the Scouts started for the mining
camp. Passing the locked, deserted office, they went on to the tent
area.
“No fire,” Ken observed from a distance. “No one around, either.”
Slightly in advance of the others, he went quickly to the tent occupied
by Willie and War. Everything was in order. But no one was there.
Meanwhile, Jack and Mr. Livingston had been looking around outside. The
fire, they noted in alarm, had been dead many hours.
“Where are they?” Jack demanded. “What’s happened to War and Willie?”
“Rhodes must know!” Mr. Livingston asserted, his voice grim. “Come on
fellows! We’re going to have a show-down with him right now!”