Hearing a movement in the boat, and fearing discovery, he closed his feet together to sink again; but, before his head disappeared beneath he was caught by the hair, and in spite of every resistance he could offer, was pulled into the canoe. As he was pulled head foremost into the canoe, he fully expected to be brained upon the spot, and more than once his head rang with the expectation of the blow. He lay for a moment on his face, without moving. In his feverish, exhausted condition, what resistance could he offer to the herculean strength of the renegade? His clothes were wet, and clinging to his shivering body, and a more miserable being probably never existed than he was at this moment. Astonished at the silence of his enemy, he raised his head and looked up. Instantly one of the loudest, heartiest, most ringing laughs he ever heard greeted his ears. “Wal, Kingman, you’re the most doleful-looking rat I ever heard on! Why, who’d you take me for? Ha! ha! ha!” “Why, Abram Moffat, is this you?” “No, it’s me. How are you? Give us your paw for old acquaintance.” Not the renegade, but Kingman’s old friend was sitting before him. The very person of all he wished to see. “Where in the name of creation did you come from?” asked Kingman. “And where, I may ask, did you start?” “Why, you known well enough. I was wounded in the battle, and have been trying to reach home.” “Trying to swim all the way?” asked Moffat, with a sly look. “No, only a part of it. I believe I stand a chance of getting a ride the rest of the way.” “Yes, a slight chance if you behave yourself, and don’t jump overboard and try to paddle off.” “No danger of that, for I am about used up now.” “Yes, I can see that you are; let’s pull into shore and start a fire.” So saying, Moffat turned the head of the canoe, which had been floating down the current all this time, toward shore, and in a few moments its prow struck the land, and they sprang out. It was now near midnight, and it was high time that Kingman was in other hands. His exposure in the water had hastened his chilling fever, and the strain which his system had undergone now suffered reaction, and his condition was fast becoming critical. In a few moments Moffat had a bright fire burning down in a ravine or hollow, where it could not be easily seen until within a few yards of it. He saw Kingman’s condition, and immediately stripped him and gave him a most vigorous rubbing, until he was all aglow with the circulation. He examined his wound, and found that it was not at all dangerous, but needed dressing. This he hastily did, and then wrapping him in his own blanket, he laid him near the fire and maintained watch himself until morning.