THE BRINK OF DEATH
In the shocking moment of discovery Dexter found no time to wonder
what malignant fate had brought the outlaw here at this unwelcome
juncture. He merely grasped the fact that "Pink" Crill was kneeling
on the cliff above, looking down at him. Instinctively he crowded
himself into his niche, shrinking inwardly. It was a seventy-foot
drop to the rocks below, and he knew at sight that this Crill was a
man without scruple or mercy. The crevice offered some protection,
but after crouching motionless for tense seconds, the corporal craned
his head back and ventured another glance upward. The face had
disappeared.
Dexter was positive that he had been seen, and was not misled by
false hope. Crill had withdrawn, but he certainly would come back.
Probably he was only hunting bowlders to roll over the cliff.
Meanwhile, however, the victim had a slender chance of saving
himself. It would be the part of sanity to scramble down with all
haste from his unsafe roosting place. He might possibly reach the
bottom before the murderer returned.
In the fractional second of his indecision, Dexter's thoughts were
sharply recalled by a sob of distress, low and piteous, heard
suddenly behind him. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he looked
into Alison Rayne's horror-stricken eyes. She was staring full at
Dexter, and apparently was unaware of the ominous presence above.
"I'm slipping!" she whispered with choking breath. "If you're
coming--please--help--"
"Coming!" he said, curt and incisive. "Hold on, I tell you!"
His hand went up again and found the carbine sling. The buckle came
open with a snap, the strap jerked apart and slipped over his
shoulder; and the next second, as he jammed his body into the crevice
and started to work his way upward, he heard the crash of his rifle
striking on broken stones far below.
If by unforeseen good luck he ever reached the cliff top he still
would have his pistol. But at present the holstered weapon was a
useless appendage, much in the way. With an impatient yank and a
twist, he drew his belt around so the pistol might bump against the
small of his back, and not interfere with his movements. Then, with
thighs and shoulders braced against the sides of the fissure,
clinging mostly by force of adhesion, he wriggled and hitched himself
up the slanting chute, as a chimney sweep goes up a flue.
In a moment he had gained an elevation level with the shelf where
Alison Rayne still held on with the clutch of despair. Six feet more
of the elbow-bruising ascent, and he was able to reach the lateral
crack that led back across the sheer face of the precipice to the
girl's ledge.
To his joy he found that the underlip of the crack sloped inward,
affording a slight ridge for his finger grip. But fortune granted
him no other concession. Beyond him stretched a bare rock wall, a
smooth, ten-foot reach, without any cranny or projecting point that
his toe might touch.
He paused only to measure his distance, and then securing his hold in
the crack, he swung out against the cliff. For a moment he hung
swaying, dangling over space, supporting his weight by his hands and
upstretched arms. The brim of his Stetson pushed against the cliff,
and he tossed his head with a movement of annoyance, and the hat
sailed away behind him.
"With you right away!" he assured the girl between clenched teeth,
and started to work out across the wall.
Still he had hear nothing from Crill. But the lines of acute anxiety
were deep drawn at the corners of his eyes and lips. At any instant
he might hear the direful sound of a rock toppling from the brink
overhead, and every nerve and fiber of his body seemed to flinch
before the imminence of the moment. He dared not look up; could only
look at the wall before him. And every seam and chink of that
remorseless surface of rock was etched in detail, to be seared upon
his memory forever.
With toes scraping and thumping, he edged his way along the crack,
inch by inch, hand against hand. He had only a short distance to go,
but it seemed to his overstrained faculties that he must have
traversed half the width of the mountainside, when at last he put
down his foot and found solid rock beneath him. For the first time
he ventured to look aside, and he saw that he had reached the girl's
shelf.
Breathing quickly, he let his weight down and relaxed his aching
arms. His resting place was the top of an outcropping rock, about
two feet wide, that tilted with a decided downward cant. He dug with
his hobnail boots into the rotted stone, but for further safety his
hand still clung to the crack in the wall. It was no wonder that the
girl had feared she would loose her precarious hold. She wore
smooth-soled boots; and the slim fingers, still grasping the ledge,
were blue with the cold, and bleeding at the tips. Dexter reached
towards her, passed his hand beneath her armpit, and drew her against
his supporting shoulder.
She swayed closer, trembling, her face hidden in the curve of his
arm. "Oh, thanks--thanks!" she whispered in broken, breathless
accents. "You came!"
"Steady!" he said, his voice low and soothing. "Take it easy,
Alison. All right now." He slid his arm about her waist, and
managed to get both her icy hands in his. "Why, they must be numb!"
he exclaimed. "Here--let's get 'em warm. We've got to start
circulation."
"I don't know how I lasted," she said with a shudder, clinging
tighter to him. "I was afraid--I never thought--"
"Don't think about it," he advised. "It's over with."
He leaned outward as he spoke to gaze nervously towards the cliff
top. It struck him that there was something ominous in the silence
overhead. Crill had not yet returned, and the corporal could not
imagine what stealthy game he was playing. He dreaded seeing the man
again; but also the prolonged absence was disquieting.
"If by any chance the chap up there's a friend of yours," Dexter said
suddenly, a note of harshness striking through his voice, "I'd advise
you to have him call a truce--at least until I can get you safely out
of this."
"Chap up there?" she echoed vacantly. "My friend?"
"Pudgy, pink-faced man," he informed her--"Crill."
She lifted her head with trepidation to gaze towards the top of the
palisade. "I don't know any such person," she asserted after a
slight pause.
He scrutinized her searchingly for a moment. "All right," he
declared. "If he's not your friend we'd better get out of this
quick. Unluckily the trip down's impossible. We've got to go on up."
As he spoke he leaned backward to scan the cliff face above; and in a
second his plan was formed. On the left side of the girl, and only a
couple of feet above her head, a broad-topped, solid-looking rock
jutted out from the precipice wall. Thence, for the rest of the
distance upward, the masses of stratified stone sloped slightly back,
and offered secure stepping places that reached by easy stages all
the way to the top. If they could gain the first shelf, the
remaining ascent should not prove difficult.
"Feel equal to staying here alone--just for a minute?" Dexter
inquired, his warm hand pressing the girl's fingers.
He felt her shoulders grow tense as she tried to steady herself.
"Why, I--if I must--yes," she replied with faint assurance.
"Good girl!" he commented briskly, before she could change her mind.
"Here! We'll plant you like an anchor." He showed her a tiny
indentation where she could brace her foot, and then helped her fix
her fingers in the chink that served him for support.
Without further ado he leaned outward, crowded his body around her
cowering figure, and a second later had flattened himself against the
cliff at her left side. He stretched his arm overhead, and touched
the ledge above.
Groping, he found a small weather-gouged groove that afforded him a
gripping surface. He caught his hold with both hands and drew his
weight up bodily, as a gymnast chins himself. With a quick, violent
effort he hooked one knee over the rim, and the next moment had
hoisted himself onto a wide, level shelf of stone.
As soon as he was settled in security he bent down over the edge,
intending to reach the girl's hands. But he realized at once that he
would be in danger of overbalancing if he attempted to lift her in
such a manner. For an instant he hesitated; and then unfastened his
heavy belt, laid the pistol on the rock beside him, and let down the
buckle end of the strap.
"You'll have to take it," he asserted.
"Oh, no!" she faltered as she understood his purpose, "I--I haven't
the strength left."
He regarded her fixedly for a moment, and when he spoke his tone was
cold and cutting. "I somehow hadn't thought you were a coward," he
said.
She threw up her head with a gasp, and a tinge of crimson suddenly
showed in her cheeks. As Dexter peered down at her he saw a gleam of
recklessness flaunting in her eyes. With swift decision she released
her hold on the rocks, and her hands grasped the end of the dangling
belt. "Go ahead!" she said. "I'll hang on if I can."
Dexter braced his feet firmly, leaned forward as far as he dared, and
exerting all the strength of his shoulders and arms, he raised her
from the rock beneath and drew her up towards him. Almost before she
could have realized what had happened, she was clinging on the brink.
The corporal caught her about the waist, and lifted her to solid
footing beside him.
She turned unsteadily, her lips quivering. "I--anybody's likely to
be a coward--sometimes," she stated.
The corporal faced her with a grin. "You didn't honestly think I
meant that, did you?" He slowly shook his head. "That's one thing,
at least, that I'll never accuse you--"
He caught himself with a start, breaking off in the midst of speech.
From somewhere overhead he heard a quick, crunching sound, like heavy
feet running in the snow. As he stiffened into alertness, staring
upward, a man's voice was raised suddenly in hoarse, angry shouting.
And then, almost simultaneously it seemed, the cliff top reverberated
with the heavy report of a pistol shot.