Westy wasn’t as optimistic as Lola. Stumbling over tree stumps and
through underbrush, he continually berated himself for having wasted so
much valuable time in talking.
Here and there he could see Rip’s tracks in the soft damp earth. The
ground must always be damp around there, he thought, for it hadn’t
rained in the mountains since they arrived four days ago.
In some places through the forest, on the way to the lake, twilight was
perpetual, the trees being so thickly clustered that the sunlight was
forever barred from penetrating through.
“If I had thought for a minute,” Westy said aloud, “that he would really
go up there, I’d have told Mr. Wilde this morning. He’s one stubborn
kid, I’ll say. Maybe, though, he’ll only go up there and sit around long
enough to make me think he carried out his threat. I suppose he’ll be
hopping mad when I catch him stalling for time.”
And so Westy’s thoughts rambled on as hurriedly as his feet. He felt
that the faster he went the less progress he made and all the while the
time was flying.
He figured from the day before how long it would be before he could get
there. The middle of the afternoon easy, he reckoned. The sun was at its
zenith now and he was mighty hungry. But he didn’t care at that, so long
as he brought Rip safely back.
For some reason or other, Westy felt a certain parental superiority
toward him, notwithstanding the slight difference in their ages. In
short, he had a real responsibility where Rip was concerned.
Away to the right through a space where some trees had been felled, he
could see the gray cliffs worn shiny and smooth from Time. “At last,” he
thought, “I’m almost there! I hope he don’t fly up when he sees me.”
So for the third time that day Westy whistled the warning of his
advance. He slowed down as he gained the broad terrace, before cutting
around to the lake.
Approaching with his eyes cast on the ground, he waited to hear Rip’s
voice. Sauntering along slowly and kicking the earth with his shoe tip
in an offhand manner, his heart leaped within him as he spied something
on the mossy ground under a near-by tree.
A small pile of clothes he saw and a pair of scout shoes, giving mute
evidence of its owner’s absence. He dared not turn around for fully a
minute, so sure was he of seeing nothing living and breathing in the
lake.
Then above the droning hum of the haunted lake he heard a faint sound.
He strained every nerve to catch it again and raised his eyes to scan
the surface of the water.
He started.
On the further side of the lake an enormous tree that had undoubtedly
fallen long ago from some cause or other, hung far out over the water,
its branches spread on either side and its huge trunk securely wedged on
land between the crevices in the stunted cliff.
Then he saw something move on the surface, right by the tree, and a
faint cry rose above the incessant humming.
“Help!”