Tom knew that he was facing a wildcat. He knew that he was not in danger
so long as the animal was not at bay. It is no longer the fashion for
wildcats to chase young heroes as they used to do in the _Dan
Dreadnaught_ and _Slickshot Sam_ Series. But, just the same, an
encounter with a wildcat at bay is no pink tea. Personally, I prefer
golf. If that wildcat had been able to listen to reason all might have
been well, but he seemed to have an hallucination that Tom was advancing
against him. And there was not much room behind the beast for a masterly
retreat.
So he drew back, mouth open, eyes blazing, and cruel paw uplifted. His
demeanor was exactly like that of a cat, lifted out of the domestic
sphere and made magnificent. Tom had no intention of advancing, though
he thought it quite likely that, if crowded, the creature would spring
to the ground or to another branch. However, he took no chances.
Discretion is the better part of valor, and he was in a hurry. He backed
away along the limb and, as he did so, the creature, encouraged,
advanced a trifle with menacing paw. He might spring, thought Tom.
In the circumstances a precipitous exit from the scene seemed wisest and
he decided to give unmistakable appearance of withdrawal by a dexterous
move to the limb below him. Getting a foothold on this, he caught hold
of a small branch which broke, and he went tumbling to the ground.
He fell upon some thick brush and for a few moments saw all the stars
known to astronomy. Then he picked himself up, staggered out of the
natural cushion which had saved his precious young life, and found that
he could hardly walk.
“No harm done,” was the laconic way in which he described the incident
to me. But for all that he had to limp to the Gulch, occasionally
pausing on a rock or fallen tree to ease the pain of walking.
[Illustration: HE BACKED AWAY AS THE CREATURE ADVANCED.]
It was, of course, long after dark when he reached the Gulch. Going
straight to the cabin, he found it dark and empty. Then he went to
Conner’s well and called down. I should have thought that his very
proximity to that black hole in the darkness would have made him
cautious and fearful. But he approached to the very edge, pulled aside
some of the obstructing growth and called down.
There was no answer. He called again, and receiving no response began
investigating the spot, trying to determine if Brent had succeeded in
getting out. He might have gone somewhere for a little while. He
examined the brush as well as he could in the dark. It was broken and
lately disordered, he could see; but that he thought had been caused by
himself and by Brent in descending.
Now he began to be puzzled, and his puzzlement grew to alarm. There was
nothing to do but descend himself, and it would be useless, or at least
unwise, to do that without a light. He had no flashlight, so he did the
thing which he could do quickest. I dare say it was a good idea. In the
cabin was an old cage trap, relic of Buck Sanderson’s hunting days. This
Tom filled with straw out of the old mattress that was in the cabin.
Some dry twigs also, and a couple of chunks of solid wood he took with
him. All this he tied to an end of the rope which he had brought and
lowered into the well, having first securely fastened the other end of
rope to the big elm which, you will remember, grew not far from the
well; the elm whose wandering roots penetrated the hole and hung loose
within it.
Then, by a dexterous trick of throwing the rope into a loop with his
foot and thus getting a foothold from point to point as he went down, he
lowered himself hand over hand down the black shaft. Tentacles of root
brushed in his face as he did so. Here and there he got a foothold in
the rough masonry and so, by hook or crook, reached the bottom. It must
have been difficult and painful, for his ankle was very sore.
He alighted on something soft--an inert form. Lighting a match, and from
this a rolled strip of paper, he beheld a dreadful sight. There lay his
comrade, Brent Gaylong, his face white and mud bespattered. Around his
right leg lay loosely the deadly snake, its sinuous body relaxed. Near
to Brent’s right foot the mottled head dangled loosely above a tiny,
muddy hollow. The creature was quite dead. Tom examined its chafed and
torn neck but saw that this injury would not account for its death.
When Brent Gaylong, in a last physical expression of his despair, had
impetuously pushed his foot down upon the sinking rock with all the
strength of desperation, he had pushed the deadly head of the pinioned
reptile under the oozy water and, all unknowing, held it there between
rock and iron sole plate until it had drowned.
There was not a scar on the victor in this terrible encounter. And he
lay there prone in the muddy water which had proved his salvation, never
knowing what he had done.