river’s East bank. The boy held a pair of binoculars upon a tiny brown speck which floated afar out upon the surface of the river.
“What is she?” asked Sergeant McKeever, who, with an ear for the exhaust, was “tuning up” his new engine.
“Looks like a canoe. She’s in trouble. Drifting sideways, now. Busted paddle, I guess. No, I believe she’s empty.” Connie jerked out his observations, as he held the binoculars upon the rapidly approaching craft.
“Guess you’re right,” assented McKeever, as he scrutinized the canoe which swung aimlessly about in the current. “We’ll just slip a line on her an’ tow her ashore.” He twisted the wheel a trifle and the Aurora, exhaust sputtering like a gattling gun, swept in a wide curve toward the floating canoe.
“There’s someone in her!” exclaimed Connie. “Look! He’s hurt—or something—all doubled up in the bottom!”
McKeever cut off his power and the speed boat glided alongside. As Connie had observed, there was a man in the canoe. The man was an Indian. He was dead.
Grasping the gunwale of the lighter craft, the two
