The giant Indian, with but one hand free to use, fairly rushed through that deadly cold and turbulent water, bearing his prisoner with him despite the wounded arm, as easily as if towing him at the stern of a pirogue.

True, his course was down stream for a considerable distance, but even when presently he struck out boldly for the other bank, breasting a current in which few swimmers could have lived, much less made headway, he still swung forward rapidly, splitting the waves and scarcely giving Beverley freedom enough so that he could help in the progress.

It was a long, cold struggle, and when at last they touched the sloping low bank on the other side, Long-Hair had fairly to lift his chilled and exhausted prisoner to the top.
"Ugh, cold," he grunted, beginning to pound and rub Beverley's arms, legs and body.

"Make warm, damn heap!" All this he did with his right hand, holding the tomahawk in his left.
It was a strange, bewildering experience out of which the young man could not see in any direction far enough to give him a hint upon which to act.

In a few minutes Long-Hair jerked him to his feet and said: "Go." It was just light enough to see that the order had a tomahawk to enforce it withal.