PATHS OF PERIL
Overcome by astonishment, Dexter stood motionless and breathless,
peering at the far-off figure with swimming senses, exerting all his
will force to keep the binoculars from wabbling in his tightly
gripped hands. He had come there looking for Alison Rayne--on a
fool's chase, he persuaded himself a moment before--and now, when he
actually saw her he found himself staring across space with the awed
wonderment of a man who beholds a miraculous apparition.
So the boy in the cabin yonder had reached her with his message of
warning. Speaking in low-pitched, half-muttered accents, under
pretense of sleep talking, his voice must have carried by some
strange sorcery through the leagues of forest, to be heard by
listening ears. He had called to Alison, and the girl had answered.
He advised her to flee to the Saddle Mountain, and she had come to
the appointed place. All of which seemed to establish positive proof
that the two were in communication during that dark morning hour when
Dexter had aroused at the sound of the voice in the cabin bunk.
The incredible staggering facts defied all reason. Without radio
equipment or the strung wires of a telephone line, there was no
imaginable way in which two people might hold long distance
conversations. Yet it was manifest that these two had done something
of the sort.
By what hidden medium the word had passed Dexter was utterly unable
to guess. He did not know what to think. He only knew that young
Smith had attempted to deceive him. Not only was it certain now that
the boy knew Alison Rayne, but it was apparent that there was some
secret, sympathetic understanding between them. And by inference it
must also seem that both were implicated in the affairs at the other
cabin, where a woman's voice had been transmitted in the same
mysterious way.
With his features set in an eloquent scowl, Dexter surveyed the
distant heights. As far as he could make out, the girl was alone.
So it was evident that in some manner she had outwitted the vigilant
Devreaux: must have escaped some time during the previous night. If
the colonel were alive and able to travel, he would be following her.
It was the logical supposition that he was on her trail now,
following, probably, not far behind. The fact that she was taking a
short cut to the lower valley, over the brink of a dangerous cliff,
would indicate desperate haste.
No pursuer was visible at that moment, but from his position the
corporal was unable to see what might be happening behind the brow of
the high terrace. It was quite possible that a second moving speck
would soon heave in sight.
Meanwhile, Dexter turned his glasses back towards the girl, and his
lips twisted at the corners into a grim, inexorable smile. Thanks to
the hunter's instinct he had traveled to this place on blind impulse,
disregarding logic and reason; and now he held the strategic ground,
waiting to cut off the girl's escape.
At the distance the cliff had the appearance of a smooth-faced,
perpendicular wall. But presumably the surface was not as steep as
the observer first imagined, or else there were cracks and projecting
points to afford a foothold. At any rate, the tiny figure seemed to
cling securely to the dizzy pitch, as a swift hangs against the side
of a chimney; and slowly, by almost imperceptible degrees, crept
downward from the brink.
As Dexter watched with bated breath he could not help but marvel at
the resolution and cool-headed nerve that dared attempt such a
hazardous descent. To gain the valley by a safer path, however,
would mean a four- or five-mile tramp by way of the cañon-like notch
that broke into the northern shoulder of the mountain. In all
probability the fugitive was closely pursued, and as Dexter had found
out by previous experience Alison Rayne was not the sort to weigh
difficulties and dangers when freedom was at stake. Apparently she
had reason to accept a life or death chance at the threat of
recapture. And not knowing Devreaux, as the men of his command knew
him, she might too readily assume that the bulky, middle-aged
policeman would think twice before clambering after her over the top
of a precipice.
Dexter looked out fearfully, with his tongue between his teeth. Even
through his binoculars, the form on the cliff was limned in
miniature, like an animated toy. The small figure crept downward
with agonizing slowness, feeling cautiously for each new foothold,
groping with clinging fingers, counting the distance gained by
niggard inches. Realizing the danger of startling the girl by
showing himself at such a moment, the corporal restrained his
anxieties, and held his position, waiting.
He was peering tensely through the glasses, scarcely breathing, when
all at once his heart gave a spasmodic jump. The climbing shape
seemed to lose contact with the wall--slipping; and as he stared with
horrified eyes, the little figure swayed sidewise, flung up vainly
reaching arms, and suddenly dropped from view.
Dexter felt a sharp muscular shrinking in his body, and for an
instant his senses swirled with a queer physical sickness.
Instinctively his eyes shut, dreading the anguish of seeing. But in
a moment he shook off the first feeling of giddiness, and by a strong
mental effort, forced himself to look again. Breathing audibly
through tight clenched teeth, he steadied himself and held the
glasses firm. Gradually he lowered the lenses, and then suddenly a
great gasping sigh heaved up from the depths of his chest, and his
sagging shoulders lifted, as though relieved of a crushing weight.
At a point midway down the cliff, he once more had caught sight of
the small, clinging figure.
His eyes aglow with thanksgiving, he stared intently, and at once
understood what had happened. The girl must have lost her footing
somehow, falling down the face of the cliff; but instead of plunging
to her death among the rocks at the bottom, she landed providentially
upon some sort of shelf or ledge, only a few feet below, and with
quick wit had caught a handgrip and anchored herself to the
projecting stone.
For the time being she had saved herself, but as Dexter gazed towards
the far-off heights, fresh misgivings smote him. The girl was
huddled against the flat wall, resting partly on one knee, her hands
spread out before her. He watched dubiously for a space, and she did
not attempt to move. He could not make out her face, nor was he able
to see how she managed to hold on; but there was a drooping limpness
in the posture of the tiny figure, and he realized that she was in
distress. Either she was hurt, or else she had lost confidence and
was afraid to stir from an insecure resting place. In either case
she needed help. Dexter promptly left the shelter of the trees, and
started forward, running, across the snowy meadow.
The ground underfoot was broken by pits and furrows, but he plunged
on recklessly, measuring his stride by instinct, keeping his anxious
glances for the heights above. Before he had traversed half the
distance the girl discovered his approach. He saw her look over her
shoulder, and then raise herself abruptly, as though actuated by some
rash purpose. Alarmed, he waved his arm, motioning her furiously to
hold her position. She gazed upward at the towering rocks above, but
after an interval she sank down motionless once more, hugging the
cliff in seeming helplessness, apparently unable or unwilling to risk
the return trip.
Fast as he ran, it took Dexter several minutes to cross the strip of
open ground. But finally he neared the foot of the acclivity, and
could appraise the difficulties that confronted him. The cliff,
rising with vertical face to a height of a hundred feet or more, was
formed of stratified rock--great slabs, lying one upon another, like
a pile of unevenly stacked books. Edges of stone jutted out at
frequent intervals to make narrow ledges, and there were interstices
between the slabs that would enable a climber to mount from one
broader resting place to the next, all the way to the top.
During occasional hunts for mountain sheep and goats, Dexter had
clambered up more dangerous steeps than this. It was as though steps
had been chiseled here in readiness for use. His only fear was of
rotting rock. Stratification is caused by weathering and the
crumbling away of stone in scales and veins; and in the process of
erosion the projecting rocks are gradually pitted and undermined, and
may break off at the lightest pressure. A great heap of these fallen
fragments was banked against the foot of the precipice, but the
corporal scrambled up over the pile, and presently stood under the
shelf where the girl was crouching. He could see her white face
peering over a ledge, seventy feet above.
"What's the matter?" he shouted.
"A step gave way and let me drop," she called down in a shaken voice.
"I caught on here--just barely--and now I can't get up or down."
"Stay quiet, then," he commanded sharply. "I'll be with you in a
minute."
"You can't," she faltered--"nobody could get here. If you had a
rope--from above--"
"I have no rope and I'm not above," he said shortly. He unstrapped
his heavy pack and dropped it at his feet. His carbine he buckled
tightly across his back by its carrying sling. It was to be
remembered that the girl expected to meet a companion somewhere in
this vicinity, and while no third person had put in an appearance as
yet, the officer had no way of knowing whom he might encounter on the
other side of the terrace, and he had no intention of going anywhere
unarmed.
As he stood silent for a moment, studying the precipitous slope above
him, he heard a splintering sound, and detached fragments of stone
bounced down from the cliff and struck the ground behind him.
Craning his neck backwards, he saw that the girl had shifted her
position and was gazing over the dizzy brink, as though her glance
were held in dreadful fascination by the ugly rocks below.
"Don't move, and don't look down!" he shouted angrily. And then he
spoke in attempted reassurance. "I'll get you off somehow. Don't
worry, and hang on tight!"
"I can't--much longer," she informed him in a small, frightened voice.
"You can until I get there!" he asserted gruffly, and picking a first
toehold, he started to ascend the cliff.
For the first thirty or forty feet the cliff sloped slightly back,
and he mounted swiftly and almost as easily as though he were
stepping up the rungs of a ladder. But as he climbed higher the
pitch became steeper, and presently he found himself hanging on a
sheer wall, depending for support on the muscular grip of toes and
fingers. The way seemed feasible, however, and after a hasty
inspection of the frowning elevation, he continued to pull himself
upward.
But from now on he moved slowly, with infinite caution. The least
miscalculation would mean a sickening fall, probably death. The
crannies between the layers of rock ran in horizontal lines, at
frequent, almost regular intervals, like mortar cracks in a crumbling
stone building. By alternating with hands and feet, he was able to
hoist himself without great effort. But unfortunately snow had
drifted into the crevices, and it was not always possible to judge
the condition of the rock underneath. Nevertheless he inched his way
upward, digging in firmly to keep from slipping, and testing each new
stepping place before he trusted his full weight to settle. By
degrees he lifted himself towards the ledge where Alison Rayne was
crouching, and at length he gained a narrow niche directly beneath
her.
Wedging himself in brief security, he glanced overhead, and at once
understood why the girl had not dared the rest of the descent. She
was lodged on a sloping rock, not more than six feet above him; but
between them the cliffside bulged out in an overhanging cornice,
smooth as glass and utterly unscalable. By leaning outward Dexter
could see her livid features as she gazed over the edge.
She shuddered as she encountered his anxious glance. "You can't come
any farther!" she gasped. "And I--I'll be here until I have
to--let--go."
"You'll stick till I come!" he told her sharply. "No nonsense!"
Abandoning the hope of reaching her from below, he turned hurriedly
to scan the cliffside right and left. And in an instant the
practiced mountaineer's eye had devised a path where no path existed.
The fissure in which he stood slanted off at an acute angle away from
the girl's ledge, but from a higher point an open crack sloped back
across the face of the precipice and crossed over the cornice rock
directly above her. He calculated the chances, and nodded with
sudden confidence.
"Can do!" he said coolly. "How's the footing up there?"
"Narrow," she answered faintly. "I've got to hold on, and my fingers
are getting cold."
"Be with you in two minutes," he promised.
The fissure was like an open chute gouged down the side of the cliff,
and just wide enough to admit his body. To crawl up that narrow draw
with a carbine strapped to his back, however, was out of the
question. His teeth clicked suddenly together. He had forgotten
about the rifle. It was an impossible encumbrance if he expected to
reach the girl. But the only way to get rid of the weapon was to
unfasten the sling and let it drop: a sacrifice almost suicidal to a
man on winter police patrol. As he hesitated he caught a momentary
glimpse of the soft blue eyes that gazed beseechingly towards him.
He drew a sharp breath. This was no time to count personal cost.
With a decisive movement, his hand reached towards the shoulder
strap, but as he touched the buckle some vaguely stirring sense of
alarm checked him, and drew his glance towards the height above.
He looked upward, and his jaw fell, and he stared in wide-eyed
astonishment. From the brink of the cliff, not thirty feet overhead,
a human face was peering down at him.
It was an unwholesome countenance, pinkish in color, evil-smirking,
with loose, flabby jowls, flat, broad nostrils, and a pair of
elongated slits for eyes. Dexter remembered the rogues' gallery
photograph buttoned in his jacket pocket, but he did not need any
print to identify the physiognomy he saw now in the flesh. That
leering face was unforgettable. The man on the cliff could be none
other than the fugitive murderer, "Pink" Crill.