her haunches. Instinctively Grey clutched the mane with his right hand to keep from falling and peered keenly forward. The cause of the disturbance was immediately evident, for coming slowly around the bend was a huge grizzly bear. The sudden appearance of the intruders into its domain startled the brute. Its upper lip curled, its teeth gleamed white, and an angry growl sawed the air. Blackbird was nearly frantic now. She quivered with excitement. The froth flew from her champing mouth, and her steel-shod fore hoofs beat sledge hammer blows upon the ground. With the greatest difficulty Grey managed to hold her in check with the left hand, while with the right he unslung his rifle. The bear was nearer now, coming steadily onward, still growling, and causing Blackbird to back farther and farther down the hill. It was not Grey's nature to retreat. He had never done so before the face of man, and he was determined that the first time should not be from a lumbering bear. The creature's insolence nettled him. It made him angry to be checked when he was anxious to reach the river. If it was fight the bear was looking for, it had sought the right spot. Quickly Grey brought the rifle to his shoulder, took aim and fired. The ball struck the bear a glancing blow upon the head. For an instant only the brute paused, and then with a terrific roar hurled itself forward like an avalanche. No longer could human hand control Blackbird's pent-up terror. She reared on high, and swung about with such a sudden jerk that Grey was hurled from the saddle and tossed like a ball among the underbrush. Of his scratches and bruises he thought nothing, for sterner work demanded his immediate attention. He had no time to regain his feet, for the bear was coming, and every instant was precious. Kneeling on the ground he seized the rifle, which had luckily fallen by his side, threw out the empty shell and drove a loaded one into its place. And none too soon, for the bear was almost upon him. Its rage was terrible to behold. Its eyes glowed like living coals, and the hot hissing breath poured from its gaping mouth like hell fire. With lightning rapidity Grey thrust the muzzle of his rifle between those gleaming teeth and fired. A deafening report ensued, and man and beast rolled over in one confused heap. Grey fully expected to feel the slashing rip of lance-like claws, and the sickening crunch of closing teeth. He stretched out his hand for his sheath knife; he would fight to the last; he would leave marks which would be remembered. But the keen blade was not needed; the terror of the mountains had made its final charge, had fought its last fight, and lay there upon the ground a quivering, inert mass—dead. Slowly and with difficulty Grey extricated himself and regained his feet. For a moment he stood and looked upon the fallen brute.
"Close call that," he commented. "Nearly put me out of business, hey, old chap? Good Lord, what claws and teeth! But for that lucky shot they'd've had me torn to ribbons by this time. I'd like to show them to the Major; he's a great eye for such things."
Blackbird was nowhere to be seen; the wilderness had swallowed her up. Suddenly Grey realised his position. Night was shutting down, horse gone, and the region alive with bears. He had settled the account of one, but there were hundreds more, and they might appear at any moment. He could not go back over the trail after the horse; that would be folly. He must reach the river. Picking up his rifle he wiped away the froth and moisture from the barrel and carefully reloaded it.
He was about to leave the place when he paused and looked at the bear lying before him.
"Ah, old chap," he exclaimed. "You've made me lose my grub by frightening Blackbird out of her senses. She's taken my small supply with her, and what shall I do for supper? You look fat and well liking, so I think a piece of your carcass will have to serve instead."
Drawing forth his sheath knife he deftly removed a portion of the skin and cut off a fair sized piece of meat from a part he considered the choicest. Next he sharpened a small stick, and thrust it through the flesh. This done, he threw it over his shoulder, seized the rifle and headed for the river.
CHAPTER III A CHILD IN THE MIDST
The river Hishu was swift. It raced and swirled between its clay banks. The water was cold—icy cold—for countless small streams from snow-capped mountains contributed to its volume. It was a fascinating monster, sinuous, terrible, beautiful. The most dangerous spot on the whole river was the Klikhausia Rapids. Here the current struck hidden rocks, which swirled, eddied and boiled down through a flinty channel, to leap at last foaming and spuming into the steady stream below. Skilled canoe men could bring their crafts safely through this turbulent piece of water, but woe speedily overtook the voyager who made the venture without a thorough knowledge of the place.
Norman Grey sat upon the bank a short distance below the rapids, with his eyes fixed upon the flowing stream. It held him spellbound by its mystic music and the clearness of its liquid depths. There beneath the surface, down among those polished stones, was peace—a peace and rest for which he ardently yearned. He might have been a stump for all the movement he made. A few birds twittered in the jack pines, and a noisy squirrel scolded from the branch of a nearby tree. But Grey heeded them not. His rifle was thrown carelessly on the ground by his side. His buckskin jacket and trousers were covered with dirt, and stained here and there with fresh blood. Grey was sore and weary. The long ride, the excitement of the day and the heavy fall from his horse were having their effect. His whole body ached, and through his left shoulder surged a numbing pain caused by the contact with the ground. The piece of bear meat was lying by his side. He had matches, and could soon build a fire and broil a slice of steak. But his energy had deserted him. He longed to lie down and rest—rest forever. His one blanket had gone with Blackbird. But what did it matter? He was accustomed to the open, and his buckskin jacket would do instead. Yes, he would sleep, and forget everything—bears and all.
Slowly he rose to his feet and began to climb the bank. Scarcely had he reached the level above ere he gave a start and looked quickly up-stream. What was that? A shout, a cry of terror, which winged its way to his ears. He straightened himself up, shaded his eyes with his hand, and scanned the river. The sun had been down for some time, but the long northern twilight was still struggling with night, and it was not hard to discern objects some distance away. As Grey's eyes rested upon the rapids he beheld a boat—a frail craft—go to pieces upon a sunken rock right in the centre of that swirling death. Then out from the midst of the roaring mass of tumultuous billows darted a dark object. Rapidly it was borne down the stream, and as it approached nearer Grey observed a man clinging frantically with one hand to a fragment of the boat, while with the other he was clutching the limp form of a little child. Grey was all alert now. His weariness and pain were gone. His tall gaunt figure was drawn to its full height, forming a dark silhouette against the evening sky. The clinging man looked toward the shore. His face was filled with agony, and twitched convulsively.
"Help! help!" he cried. "This icy water's killing me! I can't hold on any longer!—oh—God!" and with a wild piercing yell he threw up his hands and sank beneath the surface.
Quicker than words Grey tore off his buckskin jacket, and throwing discretion to the wind hurled himself into the racing stream. Though a powerful swimmer he was but a gnat in that terrible current. It seemed the maddest of folly to attempt a rescue in such a place. The waters were icy, and his soggy clothes impeded his progress. Why give up his own life for a vague uncertainty? Why risk all in a hazardous throw? But a little face—oh, so white—gleamed before him, and a curly head of gold appeared. The sight nerved him almost to superhuman effort. With lusty sinews and mighty strokes he clove the water like a Titan. He reached the child, he clutched it, held its head above the surface, and turned toward the shore. Fortunately the piece of broken boat floated near. This he grasped with one hand, and the child with the other. No longer now did he try to stem the stream, but simply allowed himself to drift. On and on they sped, Grey becoming more numbed all the time. Often he felt he could endure no longer, that he must give up and sink. But the sight of that little child, lying so still in his arm, caused him to grip the wreck more firmly. Only a short time before he had cherished the idea of rest and peace beneath those same cold waters. Now all was changed, and, instead of death, life was uppermost in his mind. Not life for himself alone, but for that helpless form pressed close to his breast. Oh, for a friendly voice from the shore, and a strong hand stretched out to lift them from the icy depths. Ere long his brain began to whirl. He seemed to be battling