The moments that followed were destined to be burned for his lifetime into Tom's brain. Half choked, sputtering, blinded by spray and spume, he found himself in the water with Sandy, completely exhausted by this time, to care for as well as himself. The Scotch boy lay like a dead burden on Tom's arm, and it was all that he could do to keep him afloat and still keep his own head above water.

Suddenly something struck him on the back of the head. It was the branch that had snapped off and cast them into the wild waters. But Tom at that moment hailed it as an aid and caught hold of it with his free arm. It was a large limb and to his delight he found that it kept them afloat, aided by his skillful treading of water.

But barely had he time to rejoice in this discovery, when the roar of the rapids ahead of them caused his brain to swim dizzily with fear.

He knew that in the center of the rapids was a comparatively wide, smooth channel through which they had ascended that afternoon in the _Yukon Rover_.

If the current shot them through this, there was still a chance that they might live, slender though that hope appeared to be. But on either side of this channel, if such it could be called, there uprose rocks like black, jagged fangs in and amongst which the water boiled and swirled and undersucked with the voice of a legion of witches. It was into one of these maelstroms that poor Tom was confident they were being borne.

Now the sound of the rapids grew louder. They roared and rumbled like the noise of a giant spinning factory in full operation. The noise was deafening and to Tom's excited ears it sounded like the shrill laughter of malign fates. Suddenly something dragged at his legs. It felt as if some monster of the river had risen from its depths and had seized him.

But Tom knew it was no living creature. It was something far more terrible,--the undertow.

He caught himself wondering if this were the end, as he was sucked under and the water closed over his head with a roar like that of a thousand cataracts.

His lungs seemed bursting, his ear drums felt as if an intolerable weight was pressing in upon them. Tom was sure he could not have lasted another second, when he was suddenly shot to the surface with the same abruptness with which he had been drawn under.

Ahead of him were two rocks between which the pent up river rushed like an express train. Tom had just time to observe this and figure in a dull way that he and Sandy would be dragged through that narrow pa.s.sage to a miserable death, when something occurred that gave him renewed hope.

In that terrible plunge under the water when the undertow had its way with him, the boy, more by instinct than anything else, had retained his grip upon the willow branch. As has been said, it was a thick stick of timber and had parted under the leverage of the boys' double weight near to the trunk.

What happened was this,--and Tom did not realize what had occurred till some seconds later, so suddenly did his deliverance from what appeared certain death come upon him. As the boys were being drawn in between the two rocks the branch became twisted around, broadside to the stream.

Before Tom knew what was taking place, and quite without effort on his part, the stick of timber was caught across the two rocks, barring Tom's progress further. The force of the current kept it there like a barrier, while the water tugged and tore in vain at Tom and Sandy.

For some time after his deliverance, Tom was not capable of moving a limb. But now he began to edge his way toward the rock which was closest in to the sh.o.r.e.

It sloped down to the river, and on the side nearest to him had a broad base which he thought would prove easy to climb. So it might have been had he not been burdened with Sandy, but as it was, things took on a different aspect and he was confronted with a task of more difficulty than he had antic.i.p.ated.

By slow and laborious steps he managed to secure a foothold on the rock and to reach a position where he could draw Sandy up beside him.

When he had done this, Tom, almost exhausted, sank back on the smooth stone surface, and while the river raced by almost at his feet gave thanks to Providence for their wonderful delivery from the jaws of the rapids.

For some time he reclined, thus getting back his strength and examining Sandy's injury, which appeared to be only a flesh wound. The immersion in the cold water and the amount of it he had swallowed was probably more to blame for his collapse than the wound. Tom bathed the cut and was presently rewarded by seeing Sandy open his eyes.

The Scotch boy pluckily declared that he felt all right except for a slight dizziness.

"Well, rest up a while," said Tom. "We've done a whole lot, but there's a heap more to be accomplished."

While Sandy got together his exhausted faculties, Tom made a survey of their situation. What he saw did not encourage him much. Toward the stream were swirling pools and jagged rocks. Sh.o.r.eward, the rocks extended in a line which, although broken here and there by water ways through which eddies bubbled tempestuously, he yet thought might be capable of being bridged. He was pretty sure, in fact, that he could manage the pa.s.sage, but of Sandy he was by no means so certain. It required a cool head and a steady nerve to negotiate the course to safety that Tom had mapped out as being the only one available.

Manifestly the longer they stayed where they were, the more time they were wasting. It would be impossible for a boat to reach them where they were marooned, and the only course was to attempt to reach the sh.o.r.e. Tom explained the case to Sandy and the Scotch boy declared that he felt strong enough to attempt the feat.

With Tom in the lead they set out. It was fully a hundred yards to the sh.o.r.e, and a slippery, dangerous causeway that they had to traverse.

But although once or twice Sandy was within an inch of losing his nerve and the pa.s.sage was marked by many slips and halts, yet in time they gained the margin of the stream and drew long breaths as they attained safety under the big pines that fringed it almost to its edge.

There followed a short rest and then they set off up the bank, eying the stream for the small boat from the _Yukon Rover_ which they felt certain would be sent out. Sure enough, before long, a glad shout from Tom announced that he had sighted the little craft. At the same instant, Jack and Mr. Dacre, who manned it, caught sight of the two lads on the sh.o.r.e. They lost no time in pulling toward them, and in a very short time the reunited adventurers were warmly shaking hands and listening to Tom's recital of their thrilling escape from a terrible death in the rapids.

The adventurous lives the Bungalow Boys had led, made them disinclined to dwell upon the details of the occurrence, but in their hearts there was a feeling of deep grat.i.tude to the Providence that had intervened and saved them from one of the most perilous positions in which they had ever been placed.

CHAPTER XXII.

TWO STRANGE VISITORS.

Late one evening, when the savory odor of frying bacon, pancakes and coffee mingled with the balsam-like aroma of the pines, and the river was singing loudly its eternal murmuring song, Jack, who had wandered a short distance from the others, came dashing back along a sort of shaly trail made some time in the past by the feet of wandering prospectors or trappers. They were camped up the river some distance above the scene of Tom and Sandy's adventure.

"Well, what's up now?" demanded Tom, looking up with flushed face and rumpled hair from the cooking fire.

The others regarded Jack questioningly.

"What is it, my boy?" asked Mr. Dacre, seeing that some unusual occurrence was responsible for Jack's excitement.

"Visitors!" cried the lad.

"Visitors? I suppose Lady Wolf or Baroness Muskrat are coming to pay us a call the noo," scoffed Sandy.

"Quit your joking, Sandy, these are real visitors. Regular company."

"Best bib-and-tucker folk?" demanded Tom.

"That's what. Better fry up some more bacon and get ready an extra supply of other grub."

"Say, kindly have the goodness to explain what you are driving at, won't you?" pleaded Tom.

"Just this. Two regular wild west customers are coming down the trail.

I kind of guess they'll be glad to accept any invitation we might be inclined to give them."

Jack knew that in the wild places the hospitality of any camp is gladly extended to the stranger, and that the news that visitors were approaching would be a pleasant surprise to these sojourners in the far north. It was long since they had seen strange faces.

"Of course they are welcome to the best the camp affords," said Mr.

Chillingworth heartily.

"You say that they are rather tough-looking customers, Jack?" asked Tom rather anxiously.

Mr. Dacre set the lad's question aside with a laugh.

"Pshaw! You would hardly expect to find visitors in correct regalia for calling in this section of the country," he said.

"Come down to that," agreed Tom, chiming in with his uncle's laughter, "I guess that we are pretty hard-looking cases ourselves."

Before they had time to comment on this remark, which was unmistakably a true one, the sound of footsteps coming down the loose, stony trail could be plainly heard. A few minutes later two men came in sight.

Both were typical products of the region.

One was tall, strapping and sun-browned, six foot two in his stockings. His round, good-natured face was topped with a thatch of corn-yellow hair, which, with his light blue eyes and fresh complexion, showed his Norse origin.

The other wayfarer was smaller and more compact, but as he bent under his heavy pack they could see the tense muscles bulge and play under his coa.r.s.e blue shirt. He was tanned almost to a mahogany hue and, no less than his companion, bore the stamp of a battler in the lonely places. A certain quiet air of watchfulness, of self-reliance and ruggedness sufficiently displayed this quality.