As the scarf came slowly off, Westy gazed with awe and admiration at
this ferocious, yet magnificent bird that he held within the hollow of
his left arm. Tenderly he placed it down on the soft warm earth.
Instantly an expression of perplexity, then amazement, appeared on his
face. He stared and then bent closer.
Could it be possible, he thought? That he, Westy Martin, had so deceived
himself and was so stupid as to hold the creature all this while and not
know it?
“Why,” he said aloud now, “I could swear I felt his heart beating!”
Then the light of reason dawned in his bewildered mind. It must have
been his own heart palpitating with excitement and the exertion of
running. Hadn’t he held the bird close to his left breast? Of course!
“Well!” he spoke softly now, but with exasperation. “I’m the original
dumb-bell! It probably was dead when Artie handed it to me! It’s stone
cold now! Can you beat it? And all this for nothing! As usual, poor
Artie’s the goat!” he murmured regretfully, looking up toward the
imprisoned boy hopefully for some further sign from him.
There was none, for Artie wisely kept himself well within the enclosure,
as the two eagles were now perched menacingly on the edge of the
precipice.
“Can it be,” thought Westy, “that they are already scenting their young
one to where he had fallen?”
He felt suddenly panic-stricken as the birds, now screeching and
fluttering back and forth over the cliff, seemed to be threatening
something. He wondered if he should run back up there and try to fight
off the birds. But the futility of the thought became apparent, when he
remembered the missing rope and realized how utterly impossible it would
be for him to try and fight those two enormous birds single handed. As
yet, they did not seem to be aware of any intruder in their midst, so
Westy decided the only course, and perhaps the wisest one, was to run
back to the cabin for Uncle Jeb, while there was yet time. He figured
that Artie, with luck on his side, could manage for a while at least to
keep in concealment.
It would be a race against odds; but nevertheless the chance would have
to be taken.
Westy’s feet hardly touched the ground, as he ran impetuously onward.
Yet, it occurred to him, as one so often experiences in a dream, that
his legs were moving, and although he knew he must have covered quite
some distance, still it seemed that he was not gaining much momentum
after all.
Thinking to save time, he struck into a trail that he and Artie had
explored shortly after their arrival. It was a short cut to the cabin
and they had only used it a few times. He hadn’t gone far when he
discovered that it had become so overgrown with weeds and a maze of
underbrush, that it was almost impenetrable and would retard his
progress considerably.
Disgustedly he turned back, stumbling over rocks, his hands cut from
brambles, his face bleeding from overhanging branches that struck him as
he rushed blindly on.
Retrieving his way once more, he at last came within sight of the cabin,
all the while shouting lustily for Uncle Jeb. There wasn’t a sign of him
inside or out, he soon realized, almost distracted. What to do next he
did not know!
“Here,” he thought aloud, “this isn’t any way for a scout to do things!
Why, I’m acting like a panicky schoolgirl. I’ve got to get help and get
it quick!”
He decided first that Uncle Jeb couldn’t have gone very far, as the
shavings of the partly made bench were still lying scattered over the
ground back of the cabin. That in itself was sufficient proof of his
imminent return, he reasoned, because one of the many fine qualities
Uncle Jeb possessed was neatness. It was characteristic of him that,
despite his extremely interesting career devoted wholly to the Great
Outdoors, disorder of any kind never held a place in his fine, wholesome
life.
Coming around to the front of the cabin, an idea presented itself to him
as he happened to glance westward. At a short distance from the clearing
around the cabin, there was a decided and almost sharp break in the
ground that reminded one of a sort of jumping-off place. This declined
straight downward, forming a gulley running on either side of the cabin
as far as the eye could see. Beyond, the mountains climbed again in
their eternal race with the clouds, utterly indifferent to the yawning
gulley that nature had so inconsistently cleft in their sides.
Before the idea was fully formed in his mind, Westy was going foot over
foot down the rocky ladder that Mother Earth through æons of time had,
in her process of reconstruction, worn away. This she had generously
provided, realizing, in her infinite wisdom, the helplessness of the
poor human mortal.
Reaching the bottom, Westy looked around for a second and then started
his climb up the other side. Not losing a moment, he soon gained a high
spot that commanded a pretty fair view of the wild country surrounding
the isolated cabin.
Raising his hands to his mouth and bringing all his lung power into
play, he hallooed vehemently in each direction. His voice reverberated,
it seemed to him, throughout the whole United States. He thought
actually five whole minutes had passed before the echo died away into
nothingness.
Just as he was about to try once again, he was rewarded with a faint,
almost unintelligible answer....