he idea in a miniature way, take a board, put it
partially across some little stream and see how the water runs up on the
board and curves around the end of it.

Pull as we would we could not overcome the force of the current that was
carrying our boat towards the wall. It would have required superhuman
strength to have turned our craft.

We struggled frantically and Jim bent the sweep till it seemed on the
point of breaking. The best we could do was to modify the force of the
current.

We bore down on the cliff like a shot, as if we were about to ram it.
But we managed to swerve the boat somewhat, and we struck the rock a
glancing blow that jarred our boat through and through.

The force of the impact sent me hard against the side of the boat.

How Jim kept his legs I do not know, but before I had time to struggle
to my feet, we had rounded the curve and were taking a dizzying plunge
down the current.

To you boys of these days, it was comparable only to shooting the
chutes.

On the downward slant the experience was like that when a buggy goes
around a curve on two wheels, almost tipping over.

Fortunately our boat did not capsize. I sprung and got my oar as we shot
down into the boiling river.

There was no time to be frightened, only to act. A great rock rose
squarely in our way.

We were rushing down on it with the speed of an express train.

Jim bent the sweep into the rushing tide of the river and I buckled to
the oar. We grazed by and down the rapids we went.

We were becoming used to incidents like this and did not make much ado
about them.

We had a clear sweep ahead of us, but very rapid. The walls widened
some, with ledges and shelves above the water. I was the lookout in the
bow when I saw a sight that caused me to yell to Jim:

"There's a whole lot of Indians on the cliff up there waiting for us."

"We can't stop," grinned Jim. "If they want to say anything they will
have to telegraph."

This was correct, for we were being borne along on a current that was
running fifteen miles an hour, if not more.

"Do you think they are hostile?" Tom inquired anxiously.

"It wouldn't surprise me a bit," I replied. "That Indian who trailed me
last night probably was a scout, and has told his people that we were
shooting the river and this is the reception committee."

"Take to the cabin, boys," commanded Jim, "if they commence to fire
things. I'll steer."

CHAPTER XXII

THE ATTACK

We