Everything was silent again, and Westy waited, all the while listening
intently. Then he tried it once more. This time the answer came not so
clear, but louder. He recognized the voice immediately as Uncle Jeb’s
and it did not sound far away either.
“Where--are--you?” he called ever so slowly.
“Up--at--the--elm,” came the answer, faint again.
“M’gosh!” exclaimed Westy. “The elm? The elm?” he repeated, trying to
figure out where it was and what had happened. There was only one
distinctive elm tree that he had heard Uncle Jeb mention, and that was a
little distance above the cabin, overhanging the gulley. That must be
the place, he assured himself.
That he didn’t meet with disaster was nothing short of good luck, for he
didn’t walk or run--he fairly slid down that precipitous slope.
The elm wasn’t far and, by keeping in the gulley, Westy soon reached it,
not much the worse for wear. There he found Uncle Jeb lying helpless and
bleeding quite profusely from a hole in his head. His foot was securely
caught in an old rusty bear trap. He was not unconscious, but quite
exhausted from the pain in his foot that the trap with its terrible
pressure was causing. Also, Westy detected at once, he was extremely
weak from loss of blood. He bandaged his head with strips of his own and
Uncle Jeb’s handkerchief. Then with the aid of some old sticks lying
around in the gulley he finally succeeded in dislodging the old scout’s
foot.
In spite of his age, Uncle Jeb was no weakling and though his foot and
head were throbbing with intense pain, he managed to raise himself with
Westy’s aid.
“Wa-al, son, so fur, so good,” he said weakly. “Can’t expect a young
fella like yuh to act as a crutch fer me though. Yuh better get Artie!”
Helping him down on a rock so he could rest, Westy related to Uncle Jeb
all the events leading up to Artie’s present peril.
“Sakes alive, boy!” he exclaimed, looking up with a discerning eye on
the waning sun. “Thar’s not a secunt to waste fer yuh to git to the lake
afore dark. As fer me, I kin take muh time and crawl back to the cabin
slow. I kin make it all right!” he added, noting Westy’s look of
anxiety.
“Are you perfectly sure, Uncle Jeb?”
“Sure as yure a foot high,” he answered with a forced cheeriness.
Westy accepted this declaration, not without a little dubiousness
however. He had every reason to feel that way, for Uncle Jeb looked
anything but capable of helping himself. If he was ever between two
fires, he was now.
“Yuh go straight to the cabin, Westy! Take my rifle off the wall, but
don’t use it ’cept yuh get in a tight corner, ’n yuh’ll find the rope
and a lantern. I say tuh take the lantern so yuh kin signal Artie, ’n
not cause I didn’t think you cud find yer way back in the dark!” the old
scout reassured Westy.
“I know you didn’t, Uncle Jeb,” Westy said, his voice quivering, and
hating to leave, though he knew the time was flying.
“Go along now, boy!” Uncle Jeb commanded. He was wishing fervently that
Westy would go, for his head was reeling and his mouth felt parched and
therefore he was afraid lest Westy should discover his steadily
weakening condition.
So Westy took his leave of Uncle Jeb with a heavy heart and climbed out
of the gulley, so as not to be tempted to look back and weaken.
After Westy disappeared from view, Uncle Jeb, with much difficulty and
effort, managed to get on his hands and knees. It seemed to take him an
hour to crawl a few feet, his foot felt so heavy and the pain was so
great. After lying face downward for a few minutes so as to rest his
dizzy head he raised up a bit and to his consternation it seemed to be
growing dark.
“Funny!” he said aloud, “it’s a-taken me all this time to get this fur.
I’m feelin’ durn sleepy, I know thet much!”
But it wasn’t growing dark at all--except in Uncle Jeb’s fevered mind,
for a merciful unconsciousness had come to his rescue and was already
plunging his tortured senses into oblivion.