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Transcriber's note:
The author consistently refers to a handgun as a "Colt's."
This is a Colt's revolver, though the word "revolver" is
not used.
OUT OF THE DEPTHS
A Romance of Reclamation
by
ROBERT AMES BENNET
Author of "Out of the Primitive," "The Shogun's Daughter,"
"Which One," Etc.
With Illustrations by George Brehm
[Illustration: It was a wild race [_Page 32_]]
Chicago
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1913
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1913
Published March, 1913
Copyrighted in Great Britain
Press of the Vail Company
Coshocton, U. S. A.
TO
"THE SONS OF MARTHA"
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Deep Canyon 1
II. A Yearling Sold 9
III. Queen of What? 20
IV. Downhill and Up 32
V. Into the Depths 39
VI. A Test of Caliber 52
VII. The Chance of Reclamation 68
VIII. A Man's Size Horse 81
IX. The Snake 93
X. Coming Events 110
XI. Self-Defense 125
XII. The Meeting 138
XIII. The Other Lady's Husband 148
XIV. A Descent 162
XV. Levels and Slants 176
XVI. Metal and Mettle 185
XVII. A Shot in the Dusk 197
XVIII. On the Brink 207
XIX. The Plotters 218
XX. Indian Shoes 232
XXI. Madonna Dolorosa 244
XXII. A Real Wolf 254
XXIII. The Temptation 268
XXIV. Blind Love 280
XXV. The Descent Into Hell 291
XXVI. In the Gloom 303
XXVII. Lower Depths 315
XXVIII. Light in the Darkness 327
XXIX. The Climber 339
XXX. Lurking Beasts 349
XXXI. Confessions 357
XXXII. Over the Brink 366
XXXIII. Friends in Need 374
XXXIV. Reclamation 388
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
It was a wild race _Frontispiece_
It sounded its shrill, menacing rattle 106
"You have something to tell me--your voice--your
eyes--" 286
Another desperate clutch at the rope--still another 328
OUT OF THE DEPTHS
CHAPTER I
DEEP CANYON
The hunter was riding leisurely up the steep mountain side above Dry
Mesa. On such an ascent most city men would have preferred to climb
afoot. But there was a month's layer of tan on the hunter's handsome,
supercilious face. He balanced himself lightly on his flat English
saddle, and permitted the wiry little cow pony to pick the best path
over the ledges and up the stiff slopes between the scattered pines.
In keeping with his saddle, the hunter wore English riding breeches
and leggins. Otherwise he was dressed as a Texas cowboy of the past
generation. His sombrero was almost Mexican in its size and
ornateness. But his rifle was of the latest American pattern, and in
place of the conventional Colt's he carried an automatic pistol. As
his horse patiently clambered with him up towards the top of the
escarpment the man gazed indolently about between half-closed eyelids
and inhaled the smoke from an unbroken "chain" of gilt-tipped
cigarettes.
The pony scrambled up the last ledges and came to a halt on the rim of
High Mesa. It had been a long, hard climb. Tough as he was and
mountain bred, the beast's rough coat was lathered with sweat and his
flanks were heaving. The hunter's gaze roamed carelessly over the
hilly pine-clad plateau of the upper mesa, while he took a nip of
brandy from a silver-cased flask and washed it down with a drink of
the tepid water in his canteen.
Having refreshed himself, he touched a patent lighter to another
cigarette, chose a direction at random, and spurred his pony into a
canter. The beast held to the pace until the ascent of a low but steep
ridge brought him down to a walk. With the change of gait the hunter
paused in the act of lighting a fresh cigarette, to gaze up at the
sapphire sky. The air was reverberating with a muffled sound like
distant thunder. Yet the crystal-clear dome above him showed no trace
of a cloud all across from the magnificent snowy ranges on the east
and north to the sparsely wooded mountains and sage-gray mesas to the
south and west.
"Can't be thunder," he murmured--"no sign of a storm. Must be a
stream. Ah! cool, fresh water!"
The sharp-roweled spurs goaded the pony up over the round of the ridge
as fast as he could scramble. At the top he broke into a lope and
raced headlong down the other side of the ridge through the tall
brush. The reverberating sound of water was clearer but still muffled
and distant.
The rider let his reins hang slack and recklessly dug in his spurs.
The pony leaped ahead with still greater speed and burst out of the
brush on to a narrow open slope that led down to the brink of a canyon.
The hunter saw first the precipice on the far side of the yawning
chasm--then the near edge, seemingly, to his startled gaze, right
under his horse's forefeet. He was dashing straight at the frightful
abyss.
A yell of terror burst from his lips, and he sought to fling himself
backwards and sideways out of the saddle. His instinctive purpose was
to fall to the ground and clutch the grass tufts. But in the same
moment that he tried to throw himself off, the nimble pony swerved to
the left so abruptly that the man's effort served only to keep himself
balanced on the saddle. Had he remained erect or flung himself to the
other side he must have been hurled off and down over the precipice.
Nor was the danger far from past. Carried on down the slope by the
momentum of their headlong rush, the plunging pony "skidded" to the
very brink of the precipice. Though the man shrank down and sought to
avert his face, he caught a glimpse of the black depths below them as,
snorting with fear, the pony wrenched himself around on the rim shelf
of the edge.
For an instant--an instant that was an age of sickening suspense to
his rider--the pony toppled. But before the man could shriek out his
horror, the agile beast had recovered his balance and was scrambling
around, away from the edge. He plunged a few yards up the slope, and
stopped, wheezing and blowing.
The man flung the reins over the pony's head and slipped to the
ground. For a minute or longer he lay outstretched, limp and
white-faced. When he looked up, the pony was stolidly cropping a tuft
of grass. Beasts are not often troubled with imagination. The hunter
remembered his brandy flask. After two long pulls at its contents, the
vivid coloring began to return to his cheeks.
He rose to his feet and walked down to a ledge on the brink of the
precipice with an air of bravado. But when he looked over into the
chasm, he quickly shrank back and crouched on his hands and knees.
Before again peering over he stretched himself out flat on the level
ledge and grasped an out-jutting point of rock.
Beneath his dizzy eyes the precipitous sides of the canyon dropped away
seemingly into the very bowels of the earth,--far down in sheer
unbroken walls of black rock for hundreds and thousands of feet. He
flattened closer to the rock on which he lay, and sought to pierce
with his gaze the blue-black shadows of the stupendous rift. Every
nerve in his body tingled; his ankles ached with the exquisite pain of
that overpowering sight.
The chasm was so narrow and its depth so great that only in one place
did the noonday sun strike down through its gloomy abyss to the
bottom. At that single spot he could distinguish the foam and flash of
the rushing waters, but elsewhere his only evidence of the sunken
torrent beneath him was the ceaseless reverberations that came rolling
up out of the depths.
"_Mon Dieu!_" he muttered. "To think I came so near--!... Must be what
they call Deep Canyon."
He crept away from the brink. As he rose to his feet his trembling
fingers automatically placed a cigarette between his lips and applied
the patent lighter. Soothed by the narcotic, he stood gazing across at
the far side of the canyon while he sucked in and slowly exhaled the
smoke. With the last puff he touched a fresh cigarette to the butt of
the first, thrust it between his lips, and snipped the cork stub over
the edge into the canyon.
"There you are--take that!" he mocked the abyss.
As he turned away he drew out an extremely thin gold watch. The
position of the hour hand brought a petulant frown to his white
forehead. He hastened to mount his pony. Short as had been the rest,
the wiry little animal had regained his wind and strength. Stung by
the spurs, he plunged up the side of the ridge and loped off along
its level top, parallel with the canyon.
The hunter drew his rifle from its saddle sheath and began to
scrutinize the country before him in search of game. A pair of
weather-beaten antlers so excited him that he even forgot to maintain
his chain of cigarettes. His dark eyes shone bright and eager and his
full red lips grew tense in resolute lines that completely altered the
previous laxity of his expression.
He had covered nearly a mile when he was rewarded for his alertness by
a glimpse of a large animal in the chaparral thicket before him. He
drew rein to test the wind in approved book hunter fashion. There was
not a breath of air stirring. The mesa lay basking in the dry, hot
stillness of the July afternoon. He set the safety catch of his rifle,
ready for instant firing, stretched himself flat on his pony's neck,
and started on.
The animal in the thicket moved slowly to the right, as if grazing. At
frequent intervals the hunter caught glimpses of its roan side, but
could not see its head or the outline of its body. At seventy-five
yards, fearful that his game might take fright and bolt, he turned his
horse sideways, and slipped down to aim his rifle across the saddle.
It was his first deer. He waited, twitching and quivering with "buck
fever."
Part of the fore quarters of the animal became visible to his excited
gaze through a small gap in the screening bushes. The muzzle of his
rifle wobbled all around the mark. Unable to steady it, he caught the
sights as they wavered into line, and pulled the trigger.
The report of the shot was followed by a loud _bawl_ and a violent
crashing in the thicket. There could be no doubt that the animal had
been hit and was seeking to escape. It was running across the top of
the ridge towards the canyon. The hunter sprang around the head of his
pony and threw up his rifle, which had automatically reloaded itself.
As it came to his shoulder, the wounded animal burst out of cover. It
was a yearling calf.
But the sportsman knew that he had shot a deer, and a deer was all he
saw. He was now fairly shaking with the "fever." His finger crooked
convulsively on the automatic firing lever. Instantly a stream of
bullets began to pour from the wildly wavering muzzle, and empty
shells whirred up from the ejector like hornets.
Before the hunter could realize what was happening, his magazine was
exhausted, the last cartridge fired, and the shell flipped out. But he
paid no heed to this. His eyes were on the fleeing calf. His
cartridges were smokeless. Through the slight haze above his rifle
muzzle he saw the animal pitch forward and fall heavily upon the round
of the ridge. It did not move.
Tugging at the bridle to quicken his horse's pace, he hastened forward
to examine his game. He was still so excited that he was almost upon
the outstretched carcass before he noticed the odd scar on its side.
He bent down and saw that the mark was a cattle brand seared on the
hide with a hot iron.
His first impulse was to jump on his pony and ride off. He was about
to set his foot in the stirrup when the apprehensive glance with which
he was peering around shifted down to the canyon. His gaze traveled
back from the near edge of the chasm, up the two hundred yards of
slope, and rested on the yearling as though estimating its weight.
It was a fat, thoroughbred Hereford. He could not lift it on his pony,
and he had no rope to use as a drag-line. He shook his head. But the
pause had given him time to recover from his panic. He shrugged his
shoulders, drew a silver-handled hunting knife, and awkwardly set
about dressing his kill.