Oddly enough in that tense moment he seemed to hear his father’s voice saying to him, “Why, boy, you’re built like an ox!” The memory was like a match to tinder.  He flung his hard young legs about the man’s ankles, bringing him down like a dead weight upon his own body.  With the wind half crushed out of him, he struggled and rolled to protect his revolver.  A dozen times the man snatched, plunged and parried to secure it, and as many times Jack rolled on top of it, keeping it securely in his hip pocket.  Not a word was spoken, not a sound uttered.  Only those two, the evil, avaricious, brutal man, and the fair, weak-eyed, brave boy, battling, rolling, lunging, each for the mastery.  Then something caused the rope to give, the knot slipped, and with a mighty effort Jack wrenched one arm loose, felt for his revolver, drew it, and fired, once, twice, not at his enemy, but straight into the air.

“No, you don’t!” snarled the man, reaching for Jack’s gun with one hand, and his throat with the other.  But with the agility of a cat the boy had thrown the gun directly behind him, where it fell clear of the bank and splashed into the river.  The sound fell on Jack’s ears like a death knell.  He had not thought they were so near the brink.  One more struggle and they would both be over.  Then his breath left him, squeezed out by the demon hand clutching at his throat.

But those two shots had told their story.  With almost stunning horror Larry and Fox-Foot heard them.

“He’s got him!  He’s got Jack!” gasped the Indian, dropping the canoe, and turning with the fleetness of a deer, he disappeared up the portage.  Spitting out the strange foreign word he only used in extreme moments, Larry followed hard on his heels.

“He’s got him down!  He’s choking him!” drifted back the Indian’s voice, shaking with dismay and rage.  Then both would-be rescuers stood stock still, awed by the sight before them.  Jack had once again clutched his sturdy legs about the man’s knees, twisting him so that the iron fingers relaxed from their grip at the boy’s throat.  The man was now clutching the gold sack, but with a springy, rapid turn Jack wrenched it free.  The two rolled over and over, for a short, sharp struggle, and Larry and the Indian appeared only in time to see the two shoot over the bank.  Nothing remained in sight but a single hand clinging to a cedar root that projected from the rocks.  It was the work of an instant to reach the hand—­Jack’s hand, fortunately—­to lift him from his perilous position, while all but breathless he gasped, “Save him! save him!  He’s in the river!  He’ll go over the falls!”

Then their horrified eyes discovered the man, by this time far out in midstream, drifting more surely, more rapidly every second, towards the rapids.

“Here, take this rope!  Save him!” cried the boy, wrenching from his poor bruised sides the very rope his enemy had secured him with.