HELEN'S ESCAPE
Helen Cameron was so fearful at first of the Gypsies overtaking her,
that she had no thought of any peril which might lie ahead of the
drifting punt, into which she had scrambled. She realized that Ruth had
sacrificed herself in their attempt to escape, but she could render her
chum no help now. Indeed, the current which had seized the boat was so
strong that she could not have gotten back to the shore, had she tried.
When the Gypsies disappeared into the wood, taking Ruth with them, Helen
realized her helplessness and loneliness, and she wept. She sat in the
stern of the punt and floated on and on, without regard to where she was
going.
She could not have changed the course of the punt, however. She was now
in too deep water; the guiding pole was of no use to her, and there were
no oars, of course. She was drifting toward the middle of the lake, it
seemed, yet the general direction was eastward.
There, at the lower end of the lake, a wide stream carried its waters
toward the distant Minturn Dam. But long before the stream came to that
place, there was much of what the local guides called "white water."
These swift rapids Helen thought little about at first. She had had no
experience to warn her of her peril. At this moment she was fearful only
of the wild Gypsy clan that had tried to keep her prisoner and that had,
indeed, succeeded in carrying away her dear friend, Ruth Fielding.
As she floated on, she saw nothing more of the Gypsies. She began to
believe that they had not turned back to follow her along the edge of
the lake. They were satisfied with their single prisoner!
"But father will see to that!" sobbed Helen. "He won't let them run away
with Ruth Fielding--I know he won't! Dear, dear! what would I ever do if
Ruth disappeared and we shouldn't meet each other again--or not until we
were quite grown up?
"Such things _have_ happened! I've read about it in books. And those
dreadful Gypsies make the children they capture become Gypsies, too.
Suppose, years and years hence, I should meet Ruth and she should ask to
tell my fortune as Gypsy women do--and she shouldn't know me----"
Helen began to sob again. She was working herself up into a highly
nervous state and her imagination was "running away with her," as Ruth
often said.
Just then she almost lost the punt-pole, and this near-accident startled
her. She might need that pole yet--especially if the boat drifted into
shallow water.
She looked all around. She stood up, so as to see farther. Not a moving
object appeared along either shore of the lake. This was a veritable
wilderness, and human habitations were far, far away.
She raised her eyes to the chain of hills over which she and her brother
and Ruth had ridden the day before. At one point she could see the road
itself, and just then there flashed into view an auto, traveling
eastward at a fast clip.
"But, of course, they can't see _me_ 'way down here," said Helen,
shaking her head. "They wouldn't notice such a speck on the lake."
So she did not even try to signal to the motor-car, and it was quickly
out of sight.
The current was now stronger, it seemed. The punt drifted straight down
the lake toward the broad stream through which Long Lake was drained.
Helen hoped the boat would drift in near one shore, or the other, but it
entered the stream as near the middle as though it had been aimed for
that point!
Here the water gripped the heavy boat and drew it onward, swifter and
swifter. At first Helen was not afraid. She saw the banks slipping by on
either hand, and was now so far from the Gypsies, that she would have
been glad to get ashore. Yet she did not think herself in any increased
danger.
Suddenly, however, an eddy gripped the boat. To her amazement the craft
swung around swiftly and she was floating down stream, stern foremost!
"Oh, dear me! I wish I had a pair of oars. Then I could manage this
thing," she told herself.
Then the boat scraped upon a rock. The blow was a glancing one, but it
drove the craft around again. She was glad, however, to see the bow
aimed properly.
From moment to moment the boat now moved more swiftly. It seemed that
the foam-streaked water tore at its sides as though desiring to swamp
it. Helen sat very quietly in the middle seat, and watched the dimpling,
eddying stream with increasing anxiety.
Suddenly the punt darted shoreward. It looked just as though it must be
cast upon the beach. Helen raised herself stiffly, seized the pole more
firmly, and prepared to leap ashore with its aid.
And just as she was about to risk the feat, the bow of the boat whirled
outward again, she was almost cast into the water, and once more the
boat whirled down the middle current.
She dropped back into her seat with a gasp. This was terrible! She could
not possibly control the craft in the rapids, and she was traveling
faster and faster.
The boat came to another eddy, and was whirled around and around, so
swiftly, that Helen's poor head swam, too! She raised her voice in a cry
for help, but it was likewise a cry of despair. She had no idea that
there was a soul within the sound of her voice.
Crash! the boat went against an outcropping rock. It spun around again
and darted down the current. It was leaking now; the water poured into
it between the sprung planks.
The river widened suddenly into a great pool, fringed with trees. At one
point a rock was out-thrust into the river and Helen saw--dimly enough
at first--a figure spring into view upon this boulder.
"Help! help!" shrieked the girl, as the boat spun about.
"Hi! catch that!"
It was dear old Tom's voice! The shout brought hope to Helen's heart.
"Oh, Tom! Tom!" she cried. "Save me!"
"Bet you I will!" returned the boy. "Just grab this rope----Now!"
She saw the loop come hurtling through the air. Tom had learned how to
properly throw a lariat the summer before, while in Montana, and he and
his particular chums had practised the art assiduously ever since that
time.
Now, at his second trial, he dropped the noose right across the punt.
Helen seized upon it.
"Hitch it to the ring in the bow--quick!" commanded her brother, and
Helen obeyed.
In five minutes he had her ashore, but the punt sunk in shallow water.
"I don't care! I don't care!" cried Helen, wading through the shallow
water. "I really thought I was going to drown, Tommy boy."
"But where's Ruth? Whatever have you girls been doing since last
evening? Where did you go to?"
He held her in his arms for a moment and hugged her tightly. Helen
sobbed a little, with her face against his shoulder.
"Oh! it's so-o good to have you again, Tommy," she declared.
Then she told him swiftly all that had happened. Tom was mighty glad to
get his sister back, but he was vastly worried about her chum.
"That's what I feared. I had a feeling that you girls had fallen into
the hands of those Gypsies. Those men in the old house were two of
them----"
"I know it. We saw them at the encampment."
"But if Ruth is still with them," Tom said, "Peck will get her. He said
he knew how to handle Gyps. He's been used to them all his life. And
this tribe often come through this region, he told me."
"Who is Mr. Peck?" asked Helen, puzzled.
Tom told her of his adventures on the previous night. After returning to
the spot where the auto had been stalled earlier in the evening, Tom and
the constable had searched with the lanterns all about the place, and
had followed the footsteps of the girls and the strange woman to the
lower road.
"I had no idea then that the wagon you had evidently gotten into was a
Gypsy cart," pursued Tom. "We saw you'd gone on toward Severn Corners,
however, and we went back. But you come along with me, now, Helen, and
we'll return to that very place. I expect Uncle Ike will be waiting for
us. I telephoned him before daylight this morning--and it's now ten
o'clock. The car is right back here on the road."
"Oh! I am so glad!"
"Yes. Soon after breakfast Peck and I separated! I came this way in the
car, hoping to find some trace of you. Peck made inquiries and said he'd
follow the Gyps. Ruth will be taken away from them," declared Tom, with
conviction. "That big smith isn't afraid of anybody."
"Oh, I hope so," said Helen. "But that horrible old Gypsy--the queen,
she calls herself--is very powerful."
"Not much she isn't!" laughed Tom. "Peck fully feels the importance of
that star he wears. I think he would tackle a herd of elephants, if they
were breaking the law."
So they sped on in the motor-car, feeling considerably better. The twins
were very fond of each other, and were never really happy, when they
were apart for long.
But when they ran down into Severn Corners, expecting to find Ruth at
the constable's house, they were gravely disappointed. The forge was
open and Sim Peck was shoeing a horse. He stood up, hammer in hand, when
the motor-car stopped before the smithy.
"Hello!" he said to Tom. "Did you get her?"
"I got my sister. She's had an awful time. Those Gypsies ought to be all
shut up in jail," said Tom, vigorously.
"Them 'Gyptians?" drawled Peck, in surprise. "What they got ter do with
it?"
"Why, they had everything to do with it. Don't you know that they
carried off both my sister here and Ruth Fielding?"
"Look here," said the blacksmith-constable, slowly, "let me understand
this. Your sister has been with the 'Gyptians?"
"Yes. Didn't you find Ruth with them?"
"Wait a minute. Was she with old Zelaya's tribe?"
"Yes," cried Helen. "That is the name of the Gypsy queen."
"And the other gal?" demanded the man. "Where is she?"
"That's what I ask you," said Tom, anxiously. "My sister escaped from
them, but they recaptured the other girl."
"Sure o' that?" he demanded.
"Yes, I am!" cried Helen. "I saw them drag her back through the woods to
the encampment."
"When was this?"
"Not far from six o'clock this morning."
"By gravey!" ejaculated the man. "She ain't with 'em now. I been all
through them vans, and seen the whole tribe. There ain't a white gal
with 'em," said Mr. Peck, with confidence.