The Border Boys in the Canadian Rockies

by John Henry Goldfrap

  CHAPTER III.

  IN PERIL OF HIS LIFE.

  Just how they clambered down that rocky, slippery track none of theparty was ever able to recall in after life. But, burned deep on eachboy’s mind for as long as he should live was the picture they saw asthey came in full view of the swirling, madly dashing torrent. Above afoam-flecked eddy, beyond which the main current boiled and seethed,towered the black, spider-like outlines of the trestle. On the othershore was a rocky steep covered with big pines and balsams.

  Between the two, his white, frightened face showing above the currentas he clung with might and main to a log, was Persimmons. This log,evidently the trunk of a tree which had fallen from its foothold besidethe path on the depot side of the torrent, reached out some twentyfeet above the devil’s caldron of the stream. The roots and the mainpart of the trunk rested on the shore. That portion that projected overthe water was nothing more than a slender pole. The freshets of springhad swept it clean of branch or limb. It was as bare as a flag-staff.

  Under it the green water rushed frantically on toward a fall that laybeyond the trestle. The voice of the cataract was plainly audible intheir ears, although in the extremity of their fear for Persimmonsthey gave it no heed. It was almost at the end of this frail supportthat the boy was clinging. Only his head and shoulders were above thewater, which dragged malignantly at him, trying to tear loose his hold.It was plain at once that flesh and blood could not stand the strainlong. If they did not act to save him, and that quickly, Percy Simmonswas doomed speedily to be swept from his hold and hurtled to the fallsand--but they did not dare dwell upon that thought.

  How the boy could have got where he was, was for the present a mystery.But there he was, almost at the end of the slender tree trunk, whichwhipped under the strain of his weight.

  “Can you hold on?” shouted Ralph, using the first words that came intohis head.

  They saw Persimmons’ lips move, but could not hear his reply.

  “Don’t make him speak; he needs every ounce of breath he has,” saidthe professor, whose face was ashen white under his tan. The boys werehardly less pale. They looked about them despairingly.

  “We must find a rope and get it out to him,” cried Harry Ware.

  “But how? Nobody could maintain a foothold on that log,” declared Ralph.

  “We might drift it down to him,” suggested the station agent; “get onthe bank further up and allow the current to carry down a loop that hecould grab.”

  “That’s a good idea,” cried the professor, hailing any solution oftheir quandary with joy, “have you got a rope?”

  “Yes, in the shack above. I’ll get it in a jiffy.”

  Before he had finished speaking, the man was off, racing up the rockypath as fast as his legs could carry him.

  “Hold on, Perce!” cried Ralph encouragingly, waving his hand. “We’llget you out of that in no time.”

  They saw poor Persimmons’ lips try to frame a pitiful smile, but thenext instant a wave of foam dashed over him. After what seemed an agonyof waiting, but which was in reality only a few minutes, the agentreappeared with several yards of light but strong rope.

  “Now we shan’t be long,” he said encouragingly, as he rapidly formed aloop in it.

  No sooner was this done, than Ralph seized the rope and tried to throwit over Persimmons’ head like a lasso. He had learned to throw a ropelike a cowboy on the Border, but this time either the feat was beyondhis skill, or he was too unnerved to do it properly. At any rate, ateach attempt the throw fell short, and the current whirled the lifelineout of their comrade’s reach.

  Fortunately, Persimmons had managed, by this time, to brace his feetagainst an out-cropping rock, and so give his overstrained arms somerelief. But it was obvious that, even with this aid, he could not holdon much longer.

  Nothing remained but to try the plan that the agent had suggested,namely, to carry the rope up the bank a little and try to drift it downstream. With a prayer on his lips, Ralph made the first cast. The ropefell on the water in what appeared to be just the spot for the currentto carry it down to the boy they were trying to rescue.

  But their joy was short lived. Having carried the loop a short way, aviciously swirling eddy caught it and sucked it under the surface. Itbecame entangled in a rock, and they had much ado to get it back ashoreat all.

  A sigh that was almost a groan broke from Ralph as he saw the futilityof his cast. It looked like the last chance to save the boy whose lifedepended on their reaching him quickly. It was out of the question toget out on the slender, swaying end of the trunk to which young Simmonswas clinging. Not one of them but was too heavy to risk it. And, in theevent of the trunk snapping, they knew only too well what would ensue.A brief struggle, and their comrade would be swept to the falls, fromwhich he could not possibly emerge alive.

  “We must save him!” panted Ralph, “but how--how?”

  “The only way is to get the rope to him,” said the professor.

  “And we can’t accomplish that unless--I think I can do it, professor,”broke off Ralph suddenly.

  “What do you mean to do?”

  “To straddle that log and get the rope out to him in that way.”

  “Nonsense, it would not bear your weight even if you could balance onit.”

  But Ralph begged so hard to be allowed to put his plan into executionthat the professor was at last forced to give way and consent to histrying the perilous feat.

  “But come back the instant you are convinced you are in danger,” hecommanded; “remember, I am in charge of you boys.”

  Ralph eagerly gave the required bond. Fastening the rope to his waist,he straddled the narrow trunk and gingerly began working himselfforward toward his imperiled chum.

  He got along all right till he was in a position where his feet beganto be clawed at by the hurrying waters below. He swayed, recoveredhimself by a desperate effort, and then once more began his snail-likeprogress. The sight of Persimmons’ blue lips and white cheeks, for inthat land the waters are almost as cold in midsummer as in the depth ofwinter, gave him fresh determination to continue his hazardous mission.

  But even the most determined will cannot always overcome materialobstacles. A chunk of driftwood was swept against Ralph’s feet. He wasalmost overbalanced by the force of the blow. The watchers on shore sawhim strive wildly for an instant to recover his equilibrium, and thena cry of alarm broke from their lips as they saw the boy suddenly losehis balance completely and topple off the trunk into the stream.

  “The rope! Haul on the rope!” shouted the professor, as Ralph vanished,to reappear an instant later fighting for his life in the relentlesstorrent.

  Well it was for the boy then, that he had tied the rope to his waist.Had he not done so, the moment might have been his last, for eventhe strongest swimmer that ever breasted water would have been but ahelpless infant in that titanic current.

  They all laid hold of the rope and pulled with every ounce of muscletheir combined forces could command. But, even then, so strongly didthe swiftly dashing stream suck at its victim that it was all theycould do to get him ashore. Blue and shivering from cold, however,Ralph finally found footing and scrambled up the bank. Then, and nottill then--such had been the strain--did they recollect Persimmons.

  For an instant they hardly dared to look up. They feared that the endof the long log might prove to be tenantless. But, to their unspeakablerelief, Persimmons still was clinging there. But even as they gave ashout of joy at the sight of him, another thought rushed in. Of whatavail was it that the boy was there, when there appeared no possibleway of getting him out of his predicament?

  Were they to stand there helplessly and see him swept to his deathbefore their very eyes? Was there nothing they could do? No untried wayof getting that precious rope to him?

  It appeared that the answer to these questions must be in the negative.

  “Great heaven!” burst from the professor’s pale lips, and his voicesounded harsh and rough
as if his throat was as dry as ashes. “Can’t wedo anything? Can none of you suggest a way?”

  “I tink I can get dat rope out dere, if you’ll gimme a chanct, boss,”piped a voice at his elbow.

  They all looked around. It was Jimmie, whom, in the stress of thelast minutes, they had forgotten as completely as if he had neverexisted. But now here he was, repeating, with calm assurance, but nobraggadocio, his offer:

  “I tink I can get it to him, if you’ll gimme a chanct.”