"Bravo! I could kiss you a thousand times for that. Come on, you
Indians! You're a darling, Marjory." Again the oars caught the water,
and Jack Barnes's white handkerchief lay in the bottom of the boat. He
was rowing for dear life, and there was a smile on his face.
The raft was left far behind and the marksmen were put out of range with
surprising ease. Fifteen minutes later the skiff shot across the river
and up to the landing of Bracken's boathouse, while a mile back in the
brush Anderson Crow and his men were wrathfully scrambling in pursuit.
"Hey, Bracken! Jimmy!" shouted Jack Barnes, jumping out upon the little
wharf. Marjory gave him her hands and was whisked ashore and into his
arms. "Run into the boathouse, dear. I'll yank this stuff ashore. Where
the dickens is Bracken?"
The boathouse door opened slowly and a sleepy young man looked forth.
"I thought you'd never come," he yawned.
"Wake up, you old loafer! We're here and we are pursued! Where are
George and Amy?" cried Mr. Barnes, doing herculean duty as a baggage
smasher.
"Pursued?" cried the sleepy young man, suddenly awake.
"Yes, and shot at!" cried Marjory, running past him and into the arms of
a handsome young woman who was emerging from the house.
"We've no time to lose, Jimmy! They are on to us, Heaven knows how. They
are not more than ten minutes behind us.
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