_The Hidden Cave_
In the face of this new emergency Wilson, as a real man will, quickly
regained control of himself. Some power within forced his aching body
to its needs. The first shock had been similar to that which a diver
feels when receiving no response to a tug upon the life line. He felt
like a unit suddenly hurled against the universe. Every possible human
help was removed, bringing him face to face with basic forces. His
brain cleared, his swollen and inflamed eyes came to their own, and
his aching arms recovered their strength. The fresh shock had thrown
these manifestations so far into the background of his consciousness
that they were unable to assert themselves.
Stubbs was gone. It was possible, of course, that he lay dead up there
within six feet of where Wilson stood,--dead, perhaps, with a knife in
his back. But this did not suggest itself so strongly as did the
probability that he had been seized and carried off. The Priest, who
was undoubtably back of this, would not kill him at once. There was
little need of that and he would find him more useful alive than
dead. If there had been a fight--if Stubbs had been given a
chance--then, of course, the Priest would have struck hard and
decisively. If he had been carried away uninjured, Stubbs would find
his way back here. Of that he was sure. The man was strong,
resourceful, and would use his last ounce of strength to relieve his
partner.
Wilson was in a veritable rat trap. One wall of the cliff projected
over his head and the other slanted at such an angle that it was
impossible to cling to its smooth surface. And so, although within
such a short distance of the top, he was as effectively imprisoned as
though he were at the bottom of the chasm. There were just two things
possible for him to do; wait where he was on the chance that Stubbs
might return, or attempt to trace his way further and reach the cave.
If he waited, the dark might catch him there and so he would be forced
to remain standing until morning. He hadn't the strength left for
that. The other course would also be a bitter struggle to the last
remaining spark of energy and might leave him face to face with
another blank wall. However, that seemed to offer the bigger chance
and would bring death, if death must be, more quickly.
He loosened the map from about his throat and, unrolling it, examined
it through his smarting eyes. The directions took him almost step by
step to the big rock which had barred further progress. He scanned the
words which followed.
"The path is locked," it read, "but it opens to the faithful--to
children of the Gilded One. Twelve hands' breadth from the bottom and
close to the wall lies the sign. A strong man pressing steadily and
with faith against this spot will find the path opened to him."
Twelve hands' breadth from the bottom and close to the wall. But
supposing that referred to some real door which had since been blotted
out by falling rock--by a later avalanche of which this barrier was a
relic? There was but one way to find out and he must decide quickly.
Also, he must memorize the other directions, for he would be unable to
consult his map in the darkness of the lower chasm.
"Thirty strides on. If the foot stumbles here, the fall is long. To
the left ten paces, and then the faithful come to the warmth of the
living sun again. The door stands before. Enter ye who are of the Sun;
pause if ye be bearded man or unclean."
Twelve handbreadths up and close to the wall; thirty paces on, then
ten; so an opening of some sort appeared and near it, the cave. The
cave--it lost its meaning as a treasure house. It was a place to
relieve the ache which was creeping back to his arms; which would
soothe his straining legs. It was a place to lie down in--this hole,
hiding pretty jewels and gold plate.
He raised his voice in a final call to Stubbs. It was like calling
against a wall; his muffled voice was thrown back in his face. With a
start he saw that the light about him was fading. He studied his map
for the last time to make sure he had made no mistake, and, folding
it, adjusted it once more about his neck.
It was the same laboriously slow process all over again. He shuffled
one foot ahead, moved his body squat against the wall, and followed
with the other foot. Each time he moved the bitter dust sifted down
until it checked his breathing and burned his throat. He had learned
to keep his eyes fast closed, but it was a constant effort, for this
increased the feeling of dizziness. Always there was a power at his
back which drew him out as though he were responding to some powerful
magnet. This and the temptation to loosen the tight cords back of his
knees--to just let go and sink into relaxation--kept him at a more
severe strain than did the actual physical effort.
But more than gold was at stake now,--more than jewels, though they
sparkled like stars. The prize for steady legs and unflinching nerves
was a respite from Death. If he reached the cave, he would have
several days at least before him. Neither thirst nor hunger, fierce
masters though they are, can work their will except by slow process.
Against them Stubbs would be racing and he had faith in this man.
He did not fear Death itself. In thinking of the end, the bitter thing
it meant to him was the taking off of her. And every day meant one day
more of her--another chance of finding her and getting her back to
God's country and the life which awaited them there. It _did_ wait for
them; in coming here they had left the true course of their life, but
it remained for them to take it up when once they should make the
beaten tracks again. Now he was trembling along the ragged edge of
losing it all--all that lay behind and all that lay before. But if
this was to be so, why had he ever seen that face in the misty dark?
why had he come upon her the second and the third time? why had Chance
brought him to her across ten thousand miles of sea? why had it
brought him here? Why at the beginning could he not have forgotten her
as one forgets those who flit into one's life and out again? He did
not believe in a jesting God.
One foot forward, the body flat against the wall, a little choke from
the dust, then the other foot after. A pause to catch the breath,
then--one foot forward, the body flat against the wall, a little choke
from the dust, then the other foot after. Also he must pause to
remember that it was twelve hands up, close to the wall, thirty paces
on, then ten.
Odd things flash through a mind long at a tension. In the midst of his
suffering he found time to smile at the thought that life had reduced
itself to such a formula. A single error in this sing-song, such as
ten hands up instead of twelve,--_was_ it ten or twelve? Ten hands up
and close to the wall--twelve hands up and close to the wall--they
sounded alike. Each fell equally well into the rhythm of his song. He
stopped in the grip of a new fear. He had forgotten, and, trying to
recall the rest, he found he had forgotten that too. His mind was a
jumble so that now he did not dare to put out his right foot at all
without first feeling with his toe a little beyond.
But this passed soon, and his thoughts returned to her, which steadied
him instantly. So he came safely to the single step down and
accomplished this. Then the other and accomplished that. At the end of
a few paces farther he faced the great rock. It had become dark down
here now,--so dark that he could not see six inches ahead. His foot
had come against the rock, and then he had felt up with his hands. He
found it impossible to stoop sufficiently accurately to measure from
the bottom. There was nothing for it but to guess--to try again and
again until either it gave or he proved that it would not give.
He placed his hand upon the rock at about the height of his chest and
threw his weight forward. It was as though he were trying to push the
mountain itself to one side. He tried above, below, to the right, to
the left without result. Nothing discouraged, he began again, starting
from as low as he could reach and pressing with all his strength at
intervals of a few inches. Suddenly, like a door opened from within,
the rock toppled to the right where it hung balanced over the
precipice, leaving an opening two feet wide. It would have been a
tight squeeze for Stubbs, but Wilson easily jammed through. He saw
that the path continued at a slightly downward slope.
"Thirty paces on and ten to the left."
He repeated the words parrot fashion and his feet obeyed the
instructions automatically. The thirty paces ended so near the edge of
crumbling rock that it fell away beneath his toe leaving some two
inches over nothing. Had a man walked here without directions, he
certainly would have taken this last step and been hurled into the
space below. It was pitch dark where he stood. He felt along the wall
for the opening which should take him to the left ten paces. The wall,
the path, the depth below the path were all one save to touch alone.
It was as though he himself had been deadened to every sense but this.
During the last few minutes his brain, too, had dulled so that all he
now grasped of the great happy world outside was a vague memory of
blue sky before which a shadowy figure danced like a will-o'-the-wisp.
But still propelled by the last instinct to leave man before the soul,
he put one foot ahead of him, pressed his body flat to the wall, and
drew the other after. As he proceeded thus, counting the steps he
took, he became aware that the air was fresher. Ahead, he saw an
opening which was a little less dark than this which stifled him. It
was light, though he saw it only faintly through blurred eyes. It was
a gray slit coming together at the top. He groped his way almost to
the edge and then to the left he saw a second opening--an opening into
another dark. It was the cave. He staggered the few remaining feet and
fell prone upon its granite floor.
How long he remained so he could not tell. He was not wholly
unconscious, but in a state so bordering upon it that he realized
nothing but the ecstatic relief which came to his aching body. Still
he was able to realize that. Also he knew that he had reached his
journey's end, so far as anything more he could do was concerned. He
would wait--wait as long as possible--cling to the very last second of
life. He must do that for her. That was all that was left.
His slowly fading senses flickered back. He roused himself and sat up.
In the gloom back of him he made out nothing: the opening was becoming
obliterated by the dark without, so that he felt as though in a sealed
box--a coffin almost. He felt an impulse to shout, but his dry lips
choked this back. He could not sit still. He must act in some way. He
rose to his hands and knees and began to grope about without any
definite object. There was something uncanny in the thought that this
silence had not been broken for centuries. He thought of it as his
toes scraped along the granite behind him. Once when he put out his
hands near the cave opening, they fell upon what felt like cloth.
Something gave before his touch with a dry rattle as of bones. He drew
back with the morbid thought that they really _were_ bones. Perhaps
some other poor devil had made his way here and died.
He felt a craving, greater at first even than his thirst, for light.
If only the moon came in here somewhere; if only he could find wood to
make a fire. He had a few matches, but these he must keep for
something more important than catering to a fear. He turned back to
the cave mouth, pressing forward this time to the very edge. He saw
opposite him another sheer face of rock which came in parallel to this
in which he was imprisoned. His eyes fell below to a measureless
drop. But the moon was shining and found its way down into these
depths. With his eyes still down he bathed in this. Then, with
returning strength, he turned to the left and his heart came into his
throat. There was still more light; but, greater joy than this, he
caught sight far below him of a pool of liquid purple. The cold,
unshimmering rays of the moon played upon it in silver paths. It was
the lake--the lake upon whose borders it was possible she stood at
that very moment, perhaps looking up at these cliffs. It looked such a
gentle thing--this lake. Within its calm waters another moon shone and
about its edges a fringe of dark where the trees threw their shadows.
He thrust his body out as far as possible to see more of it. The light
and the color were as balm to his eyes. But it brought back another
fever; how he would like to thrust his hot head into its depths and
drink, drink, drink! The idea pressed in upon him so strongly, with
such insane persistence, that he felt as though if he got very near
the edge and took a firm grip with his toes, he could reach the water
in a jump. It was worth trying. If he took a long breath, and got just
the right balance--he found himself actually crouching. He fell back
from this danger, but he couldn't escape his thirst. He must find
water. The dry dust had sifted into his throat--his lungs.
His thoughts now centered on nothing else but this. Water stood for
everything in the world--for the world itself, because it meant life.
Water--water--nothing else could quench the fever which tore at his
throat like a thing with a million sharp claws--nothing else could
clear his brain--nothing else put the strength back into his legs.
Back into the cave he pressed--back into the unknown dark. The flinty
sides were cool. He stopped to press his cheeks against them, then
licked them with his dry tongue. Back--back away from the temptation
to jump, he staggered. Another step, for all he knew, might plunge him
into some dark well; but even so, it wouldn't matter much. There might
be water at the bottom. Now and then he paused to listen, for it
seemed to him he caught the musical tinkling of dripping water. He
pictured a crystal stream such as that in which when a boy he used to
fish for trout, tinkling over the clean rock surface,--a sparkling,
fairy waterfall where at the bottom he might scoop up icy handfuls.
He tried to pierce the dark to where this sound seemed to be. He
struck one of his precious matches. The flame which he held before him
was repeated a thousand times, in a shining pool to the left. With a
throaty, animal-like cry, he threw himself forward and plunged his
hands into the pool. They met a cutting surface of a hundred little
stones. He groped all around; nothing but these little stones. He
grabbed a handful of them and struck another match. This was no pool
of water--this was not a crystal spring--it was nothing but a little
pile of diamonds. In a rage he flung them from him.
Jewels--jewels when he wanted water! Baubles of stone when he
thirsted! Surely the gods here who guarded these vanities must be
laughing. If each of these crystals had only been a drop of that
crystal which gives life and surcease to burning throats,--if only
these bits could resolve themselves into that precious thing which
they mocked with their clearness!
Maddened by the visions these things had summoned, he staggered back
to the opening. At least he must have air--big, cooling draughts of
air. It was the one thing which was left to him. He would bathe in it
and drink it into his hot lungs. He moved on his hands and knees with
his head dropped low between them like a wounded animal. It was almost
as though he had become a child once more--life had become now so
elemental. Of all the things this big world furnished, he wanted now
but that one thing which it furnishes in such abundance. Just
water--nothing else. Water of which there were lakes full and rivers
full; water which thundered by the ton over crags; water which flooded
down over all the earth. And this, the freest of all things, was taken
from him while that for which men cut one another's throats was flung
in his face. Yes, he had become just a child once more,--a child
mouthing for the breast of Nature.
When he reached the opening he dropped flat with his head over the
chasm. His blurred eyes could still see one thing--the big, cool lake
where the moon laughed back at herself,--the big cool lake where the
water bathed the shores,--the big cool lake where Jo slept.
Jo--love--life--these were just below him. And behind him, within
reach of his weak fingers, lay a useless half billion in precious
stones. So he fought for life in the center of the web.