“That’s just like you,” Sandy retorted. “Just because you’re a couple of years older than I you think you ought to do all the heavy work.”
“Well, I’ll see that you do your night watching after this,” Dick promised. “And now we’d better get started. If those fellows kept on after us they’ve had just about time enough to catch up.”
It did not take the boys long to break camp. The trail that led along the bank past the dangerous Little Moose Rapids to safe water was on the other bank of the river, and Dick and Sandy prepared to paddle across. Once on the trail, they planned to shoulder their packs and the canoe for the jaunt over the portage. They shoved out the canoe without mishap and were cutting across the swift current of the Big Smokey river above the rapids, when on the other shore, at the point where they intended landing, Dick thought he saw a wisp of smoke ascending, as from a campfire recently extinguished.
“Sandy, do you see any one over there?” Dick called.
“I see a kind of smoke haze among those little spruce trees,” Sandy replied.
“You know what I think?” Dick went on, sturdily plying his paddle, “that gang is waiting for us over there. They’re in ambush. As soon as we get close in they’ll open fire. I’ll bet I’m right. If I am we don’t dare try to land.”
“Well, there’s no trail around the rapids on the side we camped,” Sandy returned. “We’d have to detour about twelve miles that way to get back to the Big Smokey.”
They were slowly drawing closer to the opposite bank, the swift current pulling them downstream a little in spite of their efforts. The boys were silent as they drew closer, undecided which way to turn, almost certain now that a warm reception awaited them on the portage trail landing. Suddenly Dick spoke cooly, but tensely:
“Backwater, Sandy. Don’t act excited. We don’t dare go on. I just saw two rifle barrels thrust over a hump of moss on a fallen tree.”
Sandy did not falter at the warning. He reversed his paddle, as Dick was doing, and the canoe came almost to a standstill.
“We’ll have to shoot the rapids!” Dick’s voice was like the snap of a whip as he made known his daring resolve.
At Little Moose Rapids the Big Smokey river plunged through a gorge nearly a half mile long before it finally came once more to a gentler incline where canoeing was safe. Only the most daring of canoeists ever risked piloting a frail craft through this treacherous stretch of water, and many who had dared had been drowned. Dick’s last minute resolution was one of desperation. Though he and Sandy were experts with the paddle, yet they never would have considered attempting to shoot any rapids had death or capture not threatened them.