XIII THE CAMP IN THE CAVE

When Ronald regained consciousness, he found himself in semi-darkness, and it was several moments before he could make out his surroundings. He was lying with his body in the water, but his head and shoulders on shelving rock. Just as he opened his eyes, a wave swept over his breast, the cold spray striking his face. As the water receded, it seemed to pull at his legs, but his body was lodged in a shallow rift of the rock, and the drag of the water was not strong enough to dislodge him. A little way above his head he could discern in the gloom, a dark rock ceiling. As soon as he was able to connect his thoughts with what went before his plunge over the cliff, he realized that he was probably in one of the caves that he had guessed must penetrate the rock at the water line.

His head ached, and when he put his hand to his forehead, he felt that it was wet with something thicker and stickier than lake water. He had cut his head on a rock when he fell into the water. It was striking the rock, rather than plunging into the lake, that had made him lose consciousness. He wondered that he had not been drowned. It was not the first time in his rather adventurous life that he had come near to drowning. It was strange, he thought, that he was not strangling and gasping for breath, his throat, nose and lungs full of water. Surely his head could not have been under more than a moment. Yet he had been washed into the hole in the rock.

His limbs were so numb with cold he could scarcely use them, but he managed to roll over and crawl farther up the slanting shelf on which he lay. This rock incline was at the inner end of the cave, which, as he could see in the half light, was small and low. When he was close against the rear wall he was above the reach of the waves, but he could not rise to a sitting position without striking his head against the ceiling.

Then he remembered his gun. He slipped back down the slope and searched for it as best he could, but failed to find it. Probably it had fallen out of his hand when he tumbled over the cliff. He was almost out of ammunition anyway, so the loss was not very serious.

The really serious thing was his situation there in the cave. How was he to get out? Of course he could swim, breasting the waves that washed into the opening, but after he had passed the entrance, it would be no easy feat, with such a sea running, to swim along shore looking for a place where he could climb up. It would take strenuous exertion to keep from being dashed against the rocks. His limbs were stiff and numb from the cold water, his head aching and dizzy, and he felt himself in poor trim for such a struggle.

Perhaps there was some other opening from the hole. He could see that the sloping shelf extended part way along the sides. Crawling to the left, he found the wall continuous. There was no exit on that side. He rolled over and crawled back and around to the right of where he had been lying. In the dim light he could discern a black streak just where the shelf ended. The streak proved to be, as he had hoped, a rift in the rock. The rear and side walls, running almost at right angles, did not quite come together, leaving a narrow break he could just squeeze his body into. The rift was dark, the rock closing overhead, and, as there was not room for him to stand upright, he was obliged to crawl, but the bottom sloped sharply upward, and he could see dim light ahead. He hoped that he had found a way to reach the top of the cliff. He had not crawled more than fifty feet, however, when he came to the end of the passage. It did not lead to the top, but opened out on a narrow ledge about half-way up the side wall of another cave.

This cave was larger and higher than the one he had just left, and on its farther side there was a pebble beach fifteen or twenty feet wide. Ronald stared at that stretch of beach in amazement, for there on the pebbles glowed the live embers of a fire. The boy’s eyes searched every foot of the cavern. It was better lighted than the other hole, for the entrance, though narrow, was much higher, and even the nooks and corners were not dim enough to conceal from his keen eyes any one in hiding. Not a living thing, man, animal or bird, was to be seen. Men had been there only a short time before, but they had gone and taken their belongings with them.

To reach the beach Ronald had to let himself down into the water. The bottom was rock and he succeeded in wading around the cave without going in above his knees. For some reason the waves did not come into this cavern so strongly.

On the beach he found that the fire had been made between drift logs laid close enough together to allow a kettle or pan to rest on them. Near by was a bed of balsam branches and other traces of a camp. He remembered that the trail Etienne had followed had ended near this place. Surely this camp in the cave accounted for the disappearance of the Frenchman and the Cree. They had been here not later than a few hours before.

The boy’s mind reverted to his plunge over the cliff. He knew well that he had not merely slipped and fallen. Something had struck him a heavy blow from behind. He and his comrades had come upon no traces of large animals on the island. Moreover Ronald did not know of any animal, that, unprovoked, would be likely to attack a man in such a manner. The inference was plain. Either Le Forgeron or his Indian companion had stolen up on him from behind and had knocked him over the cliff. What reason could the Blacksmith have for such an assault? Revenge undoubtedly for Ronald’s attack on him when he was torturing the poor old squaw. But surely he had not come all this distance back from the Sault for a mere act of vengeance. It must be, the lad thought, that Le Forgeron was following the three adventurers with the intention of taking the golden sand for himself. If they were near the gold, and he knew it, he might wish to make away with them before they actually reached the spot. But if he wanted to get rid of them, why had he not attacked their camp two nights before, when he had the advantage and could have slain them all in their sleep? Perhaps he had had such an intention, but had given it up after falling from the tree, fearing that Nangotook at least might have heard him. There was also the possibility that Le Forgeron might not know just where the yellow sands lay, and that he did not want to destroy all of the party until they had guided him to the place. He had merely seized the opportunity to get even with a personal enemy, as he certainly considered Ronald, by making away with him in a manner that would seem wholly accidental. At any rate Ronald was convinced that the Frenchman had made a deliberate attempt upon his life. A glint came into the lad’s blue eyes, and his mouth set in a determined line. Instead of frightening him, the treacherous, cowardly assault had merely steeled his determination to outwit the Blacksmith and, in defiance and despite of him, to find and take possession of the golden sands.

All these thoughts flashed through the lad’s mind in the few moments that he spent in examining the camping place on the pebbles. Then he commenced to search for a way out of the cave. Except the rift by which he had come, there was no break anywhere in the rock walls. It was evident that there was no exit except by water. He must make his attempt that way.

Exercise had dried his clothes somewhat, but he felt chilled to the bone. He took off his heavy blanket tunic, and noticed as he did so that his knife was missing. It had not fallen from the sheath, for the sheath was gone too, the leather thong that held it to his belt cut cleanly. He whistled between his teeth at the discovery.

Vigorously he rubbed his limbs, then rolled up the tunic and fastened it around his neck by the sleeves, leaving his arms free for swimming, and stepped into the water again. Keeping as close to the wall as he could, he waded to the entrance of the cave, where he paused, waist deep in water, to look out. The sky was blue, the wind blowing strongly, and the waves rolling high, but rocks just outside protected the entrance somewhat. He could make his start in comparatively smooth water, but a few strokes either way would bring him out into the force of the waves. He did not hesitate long, for he must make the attempt sooner or later. He could not trust to his friends ever finding him in that well hidden cave. Even if they followed his trail to the place where he had fallen over, he was not sure that he would hear them, or that, calling from below, he could make them hear his voice above the noise of the surf.

He was standing at the threshold of the cave, on a ledge across the entrance. The outer side ran straight down, sheer with the wall above the opening, and one step would take him into unknown depths. He made the plunge, but had scarcely taken three strokes, when he saw that he was close to the rift where the Frenchman and the Cree, according to the Ojibwa’s reckoning, must have lowered their canoe and scrambled down to it. If they could go up and down there so could he, provided he could get in without being thrown in forcibly by the water and his brains dashed out against the walls. The waves were rolling straight into the rift. He must let himself be carried in, and trust to his strength to resist being battered against the rocks.

He had scarcely an instant of time to make the decision. He was borne in, almost grazing the wall, straight towards the place where the foam dashed to the top of the cliff. He would be thrown against the rock, battered, stunned. But, as he was carried in, he caught sight of a point of rock projecting from the wall just above where his head would pass. Instinctively he threw up his right arm and grasped that rock, his fingers gripping the tough stem of the stunted, trailing juniper that grew upon it. With the pull of the water below and the weight of his soaked garments, it seemed as if his arm would be torn out of the socket, but he held on, and, with a mighty effort, raised himself up until he could grasp the rock with his other hand also. Luckily the strong stem of the juniper and its tough roots, that had penetrated deep into the cracks and crannies, held fast, and the boy was able at last to pull himself clear of the water.

He was safe for the moment, but what was he to do next? How was he to reach the spot, near the head of the rift and beyond the foam-dashed wall where he could climb to the top? There was no possible way to reach it, unless he let himself down into the water again, and took the risk of being carried against the rock by the waves. He gave a little whistle between his teeth. Apparently he was worse off, much worse off, than he had been in the cave. He had better have stayed there, but it was of no use regretting that now.

He turned to examine the cliff behind him. The only possible place of ascent was just where the point of rock he was clinging to projected from the wall. There the wall was not quite perpendicular, there were a few crannies and holes, and from the top another trailing juniper sprawled part way over and hung down a few feet. It was a dangerous ascent, but a possible one. He could not remain where he was, inactive, the cold wind blowing on his soaked clothes, without chilling to the bone.

Crouched on the projecting rock, he wrung the water out of his clothes as well as he could without taking them off. There was no room to do that. Then he crawled along a little, put the fingers of his right hand into a hole in the cliff, and cautiously pulled himself up to a standing position, leaning against the wall. Clinging with his fingers and moccasined toes to every little cranny and hollow, his body sprawled flat against the rock, he made his way, slowly, carefully up, a few inches at a time, until he could grasp with his left hand the stout hanging stem of the juniper. After that it was easier, and he pulled himself safely over the edge not far from the place where he had fallen down.

As soon as he was safe again, Ronald became conscious that his head was throbbing painfully. He had hardly felt it since he came out of the crack into the larger cavern. He was shivering with cold too, and his one desire was to get back to camp as soon as possible.

The sun was setting when he came out of the woods at the southern end of the island. He shouted, and Jean appeared from the other side of the cabin, where, out of range of the wind, he was getting supper. He waved his hand in cheery greeting, then stopped and stared at the figure Ronald presented, his clothes only half dried, his cap gone, his hair and forehead stained with blood.

“Ciel! What has come to you?” he cried. His startled exclamation brought the Indian around the hut.

Crouched close to the fire, upon which Jean heaped fuel, Ronald told the story of his adventures. The others listened, each according to his nature, Jean with amazed expression and frequent exclamations and questions, Etienne silently, with grave, stern face.

When Ronald had finished, the Indian made but one comment. “Your guardian spirit must be very powerful,” he said, “or the manito of the waters favors you.” Then, as if remembering suddenly that he was a Christian, he hastened to add in a devout tone, “The good God above was indeed watching over you.”

“’Tis true I have been miraculously saved,” Ronald replied, “but why, think you, is Le Forgeron on this island? Are we near the Island of Yellow Sands then? I would that we could resume our search for it.”

“We will resume it as soon as this gale blows itself out,” replied Jean confidently. “We are near it I am sure, and now we know which way to go.”

“What do you mean?” cried Ronald. “Have you gained some new knowledge then?”

“Truly we have,” Jean answered springing to his feet. “Look, over there!” And he pointed across the water to the southwest.

Ronald rose and gazed. The wind had driven away cloud, mist and haze. Land, for days shut off by thick weather, was distinctly visible.