THE SHOT
Slim Tyler had cherished the hope that daylight would reveal the
plane, or what remained of it after its collision with the cliff.
Even if wrecked, he might recover from it provisions to keep himself
alive for a time and weapons with which to secure game later on.
The fact that he could discern no trace of it was at first a bitter
disappointment. Yet, as he pondered the matter, there came a slight
upspringing of hope.
How did he know that the plane had smashed? Might not Jerry, despite
the damage it must have sustained, have managed to keep it aloft?
The shock, to be sure, had been violent enough to throw him, Slim
Tyler, out of the fuselage. But his companions might have had better
luck, and the _Hope_ itself might have survived. If this were true,
he knew that they would search for him unceasingly until they found
him.
This was the bright side of the picture. Down deep in his heart he
felt almost certain that the _Hope_ had gone down.
But if so, where was it? Why had it not fallen at practically the
same spot in which he found himself?
The answer might be found in the great gorges that seamed the
plateau. He shuddered as he looked at them. At the bottom of one of
them the _Hope_ at this moment might be lying, far from human sight,
a crumpled mass with the dead bodies of Dick Mylert and Jerry Marbury
in the wreckage.
How had he himself survived? Why had he not been killed by his fall?
A glance at the mountain side gave him the answer. He had not fallen
like a plummet through space. He had been flung out on an icy slope,
through which protruded at frequent intervals clumps of bushes and
shrubbery that had flourished during the brief summer season.
These, no doubt, had broken his fall. His progress down the slippery
slope had been checked at intervals until he had finally brought up
at the bottom, horribly bruised and sore, but with all his bones
intact.
The tufts of shrubbery gave him an idea. They might serve as hand
holds and enable him to make his way to the top. From there, on the
other side of the mountain, he might discern some traces of the
catastrophe.
He girded himself for the effort and began to climb. In his
condition it was a frightful task. For every three feet he went up,
he slipped back at least one. Every muscle of his body clamored its
weariness and pain.
But the stuff of which heroes are made was in Slim Tyler, and at last
he reached the coveted summit.
From there he could see for many miles in every direction. It was a
scene of magnificent grandeur that met his eyes. As far as the eye
could reach were ice-capped mountains, valleys and gorges, gleaming
in the morning sun.
But its sublimity made no appeal to Slim Tyler in his present state
of mind. To him it was only a magnificent tomb, in which he might
find his eternal rest, as perhaps his cherished comrades had already
found it.
He strained his eyes for some sign of the _Hope_, But the region was
a sealed book. There was nothing in it that he could read. If the
mountains and gorges knew anything, they kept the secret.
Bitterly disappointed, Slim Tyler left his point of vantage. The
cliffs on the other side of the mountain were almost perpendicular.
He must return by the way he had come.
Reaching once more the plateau, Slim tied a handkerchief to a clump
of bushes so that its fluttering might attract attention, in case one
of his companions or a wandering trapper should come that way. To it
he pinned a page of his notebook, on which he scribbled a few lines,
telling of the disaster and urging that search should be made for him
and his companions.
Then he set out on his journeyings. He had no plan of action. Under
the circumstances he could have none. One path was as good as
another. All he knew was that he must keep moving.
Otherwise he would freeze. In motion there was hope. It would
engross his mind, keep him from going mad. And there was always the
chance that he might stumble on some traces of Jerry and Dick.
Then, too, there was that camp that he thought he had discerned just
before the fog closed in on the plane.
Was it really a camp? Or was it a mere figment of his imagination?
And if it existed, in what direction did it lay?
He had not the least idea. It might be east, west, north, or south
from where he was at present. Every step he took might be bringing
him nearer to it or taking him farther from it. It was a pure
gamble, in which he had one chance out of four.
He progressed but slowly. At times he had to make wide detours to
get about the crevasses in the ice that criss-crossed the plateau in
all directions. The utmost care was necessary, for the slightest
misstep on the slippery ice might send him into the yawning mouth of
an abyss.
Hours passed, and still Slim Tyler plodded on. He had eaten nothing
since the noon before, and the fast of twenty-four hours had made him
ravenously hungry.
He searched his pockets in the faint hope that he might find a bit of
biscuit or of chocolate. But there was not a crumb. He plucked some
leaves and twigs from withered shrubbery and chewed on them in the
hope of alleviating the gnawing pangs. But they seemed only to
aggravate his hunger.
At times he stood still and shouted, in the hope that his voice might
carry to some human ears in that vast solitude. The mountains echoed
back the shout, but no other voice replied.
Night fell and he perforce had to stop. He was growing dizzy and
lightheaded. But he did not dare sleep. Even that solace of the
miserable was denied him. He knew that, if he once closed his eyes
in that freezing atmosphere, he would never open them again.
He had no matches, or he might have gathered withered shrubs enough
to make a tiny fire. That at least would have brought some semblance
of cheer.
All night long he tramped to and fro in a narrow space that he had
selected because it was free from crevasses. When morning came he
set out again on his quest.
He still kept shouting at intervals, though his voice was weaker now.
It was after one of those quavering calls that he stopped abruptly.
What was that? An answering call? No! He must be getting
delirious. He had been fearing that. Now it had come!
But no--yes--there it was again! No mistake this time! A voice that
was not his own and that had a familiar ring in it!
Slim Tyler summoned up his remaining strength and hurried around a
near-by bend in the cliff. And there was Dick Mylert running to meet
him!
Dick! Good old Dick! Not his ghost, but Dick in the flesh! Dick,
whom he had feared he would never see again!
The two fairly hugged each other in the exuberance of their delight,
babbling incoherently.
"And Jerry?" asked Slim, when they had somewhat recovered their
composure.
A shadow came over Mylert's haggard face. He shook his head sadly.
"Don't know," he replied. "The shock came and the next thing I knew
I knew nothing. I was just chucked out and found myself alone when I
woke up. Ever since I've been looking around for you and him."
They exchanged experiences, which had been very much alike. They had
rolled down different slopes and so had become separated.
"Not a scrap to eat," mourned Dick. "Gee, I'd like to come across
those auks we killed!"
"Same here," echoed Slim. "But now, if we starve, we'll have the
poor comfort of starving together."
"Poor is right," said the young reporter, with a grimace. "But let's
hope it won't come to that."
They set out again on their apparently unending tramp. Two hours
passed, and they were steadily growing weaker. Growing more
hopeless, too, though each kept up a brave front.
"Don't know where we're going, but we're on the way," remarked Dick,
with a game but feeble attempt at joking. "Geewhillikens! what's
that?"
The "that" was a shot that rang out crisply in the icy air!
At the same moment a bird that had been flying overhead came whirling
down to earth!