A RESCUE
Beth had uttered that one cry only, as man and horse careened above the
pit. She now sat dumbly staring where the two had disappeared.
Nothing could she see of Van or his pony. A chill of horror attacked
her, there in the blaze of the sun. It was not, even then, so much of
herself and Elsa she was thinking--two helpless women, lost in this
place of terrible silence; she was smitten by the fate of their guide.
Van, for his part, looked about as best he might, observing his
situation comprehensively. He was safe for the moment. The ledge
whereon he was bearing a portion of his weight was narrow and crumbling
with old disintegration. The shrub to which he clung was as tough as
wire cable, and had once been stoutly rooted in the crevice. Now,
however, its hold had been weakened by the heavy strain upon it, and
yet he must continue to trust a part of his weight to its branches.
There was nothing, positively nothing, by which he could hope to climb
to the trail up above.
He deliberately rested and fostered his breath, not a trifle of which
had been jolted in violence from his body. Presently he raised his
voice and called out, as cheerfully as possible:
"Ship ahoy! Hullo--Miss Laughing Water!"
For a moment there was no response. Beth was to utterly overcome to
speak. She hardly dared believe it was his call she heard, issuing up
from the tomb. She feared that her hope, her frantic imagination, her
wish to have it so, had conjured up a voice that had no genuine
existence. Her lips moved, but made no audible sound. She trembled
violently. Van called again, with more of his natural power.
"Hullo! Hullo! Miss Beth--are you up there on the trail?"
"Oh, yes! Oh! what shall I do?" cried Beth in a sudden outburst of
relief and pent-up emotions. "Tell me what to do!"
Van knew she was rather near at hand. The bridge and trail were
certainly no more than twenty-five feet above his head. He could make
her hear with little effort.
"Brace up and keep your nerve," he instructed. "We're O.K. up to date.
Just ride ahead till you come to the flat. Let Elsa hold your mare.
Can you hear me plainly?"
"Oh! yes--yes--then what next?" replied the worried girl.
Van resumed calmly: "You'll find a rawhide rope on Elsa's saddle. Come
back with that, on foot. Then I'll tell you what to do. Don't try to
hurry; take your time, and don't worry." After a moment, as he got no
reply, he added: "Have you started?"
Beth had not budged her mare, for terror of what she must do. She was
fortifying all her resolution. She answered with genuine bravery:
"Yes--I--I'll do what you say."
She took up the reins. Her pale face was set, but she did not close
her eyes to cross the dizzying brink. The mare went forward--and
Elsa's bay resumed his patient tagging, up to and past the fateful
place where a part of the shelf-edge, having been dislodged, had let
Van's pony fall.
For ten age-long minutes Van waited on his ledge, feeling the
treacherous, rotted stuff break silently away beneath his feet. The
shrub, too, was showing an earthy bit of root as it slowly but
certainly relinquished its hold on the substance which the crevice had
divided. The man could almost have calculated how many seconds the
shelf and the shrub could sustain their living burden.
Then Beth returned. She had left her maid with the horses; she held
the lasso in her hand. To creep on foot along the granite bridge was
taxing the utmost of her courage. She could not ascertain precisely
where it was that the horseman was waiting below. She was guided only
by the broken ledge, where pony and all had disappeared. Therefore,
she called to him weakly.
"Mr. Van--Mr. Van--where are you?"
Van's heart turned over in his breast.
"Just below that split boulder in the trail," he answered cheerily.
"Go to that."
A silence succeeded, then he heard, in tremulous accents:
"I'm here--but how am I going to tie the rope?"
Van answered distinctly, for much depended on precision.
"Uncoil it first. On one end there's an eye that runs the loop. Open
the loop to a pretty good size and slip it over the smaller portion of
the boulder. Then push it well down in the crevice, and pull it tight."
He knew that the rope was far too short to loop the larger rock and
reach his hands. He waited while he thought she might be working--as
indeed she was--and presently added: "Got that done?"
"Yes," she called. "Yes--but are you sure----"
His hold was giving way. He answered crisply:
"Now drop me the end. Don't wait!"
[Illustration: His hold was giving way.]
Beth had forgotten all danger to herself. She had ceased to tremble.
She paid out the rope with commendable promptness.
"Does it reach?" she cried. "Can you get it?"
He could not. Though sufficiently long it was ten feet away, on his
right. His seconds were growing fearfully precious.
"Just shift it over, more towards Elsa," he called, still calmly.
"Move it about ten feet."
It began to approach him jerkily. It halted, then once more it moved.
The shrub in his grasp gave out an inch, and was coming from its
anchorage. Then his fist was closed on the rope.
"All right!" he called. "Let go--and stand aside!"
"But--oh, if the rock shouldn't hold!" cried the girl. "Are you sure
it won't pull over?"
He was not at all certain of the boulder. This explained his
directions, "stand aside!" If it came--it must not involve the girl.
There was nothing for him but to trust to its weight against his own.
He was strong. He began to come up, bracing a foot against the
crumbling wall, winding the rope around one of his legs--or his leg
around the rope, and resting whensoever he could.
Beth stood there, nearly as tense as the rope. Her brown eyes were
fixed on the bedded boulder; her face was more gray than its bulk.
At the edge, where the lasso impinged upon the granite, small particles
were breaking and falling ominously. Scarcely daring to breathe, as
she felt how the man was toiling up from the maw of the chasm, Beth
could not bear to look where he must come--if come he ever should.
It seemed an eternity of waiting. At last, when new misgivings had
seized upon her heart, she heard his labored breathing. Even then she
did not turn. She feared to watch his efforts; she feared to break the
spell. A minute later she heard his even voice.
"It's a wonderful view--from down below."
The glad, eager light in her eyes, which his eyes met from the brink,
put strength in both his arms. He came up to safety in an outburst of
vigor that was nothing short of magnificent.
"Oh!" said the girl, and she leaned against the wall in a sudden need
for support.
"I really had no intention of--deserting like that," panted Van, with a
smile that was just a trifle forced. "But it's so much easier to--drop
into a habit than it--ever is to get out."
She made no reply, but remained where she was, weakly leaning against
the wall and slowly regaining the strength she had lost at the moment
of beholding him safe. She was not the fainting kind, but she was
human--womanly human.
Van began immediately to release and re-coil the rope.
"Too bad to throw away a pony like that," he resumed regretfully. "I
always intended, if he died a Christian death, to have his hide tanned
for a rug."
He was saying anything, no matter what, to dissipate the reactionary
collapse into which he feared the girl was falling.
"Now then," he added, when the rope was well in hand, "we've wasted all
the time we can spare on a second-rate vaudeville performance. Come
along."