Читать книгу Trail and Trading Post; or, The Young Hunters of the Ohio онлайн

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“Whe—where are you, Dave?” was his first question, as he dashed the water from his eyes.

There was no answer, and in the mist and darkness he could see nothing. He struck out, and soon reached a spot where he could stand on the rocky bottom of the watercourse. He was under some tree-limbs, and knew that the shore must be close at hand.

“I say, Dave!” he called again. “Dave!”

“Henry!” was the feeble reply.

The voice was sufficient for Henry to locate the canoe, and he hastened toward it. Feeling around in the utter darkness he caught hold of his cousin’s knee and then his arm.

“What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

“I—I don’t know,” faltered Dave. “A tree-limb struck me on the head.” He put up his hand. “Phew! I’ve got a lump on my forehead like a walnut!”

Henry could feel that the canoe was filling with water, and so lifted up the guns and the powder and bullet horns. Dave was slowly recovering from the shock received. Both stood up and leaned against a thick limb above the canoe.

“Let us follow the limb to shore,” said Henry, and this was done, they taking everything that had been in the canoe with them.