Somewhere not far off was the sound of falling water and ten or fifteen
minutes more of difficult progress brought us to a long, narrow cleft
crossing our line of travel. Into this tumbled a rushing brook which
wriggled down in its boisterous course from high up the mountain. I
thought that Tom might have heard this falling water from a long
distance and come thither intending to follow the course of the brook.
We wondered how he had crossed the cleft, for as far as we could see, it
did not seem to narrow in either direction. Brent walked on ahead a
little way.
“We might as well see how far this cleft goes,” he called.
“You’re right,” I said. “There might be a turn we can’t see from here.”
“We can only try. If there’s a place one can cross, Tom has found _that
place_.”
“I dare say,” I said, greatly admiring Brent’s implicit faith in Tom’s
judgment.
We walked along then in silence, the stillness being broken only by the
occasional crackle of dried twigs underfoot and the now distant sound of
the turbulent little brook swishing down the mountain side.
“Bad turn ahead,” Brent called to me, “Keep in line!” As usual I had
been lagging in the rear, but on hearing this, increased my speed and
caught up to him at the turn.
Some distance beyond, the cleft stopped abruptly. Even our own trackless
path ahead, narrowed out before our eyes and ended against another
towering wall of frowning stone rising out of a deep gully.
“Well this is once we’ll stand with our backs to the wall,” Brent said,
with a mixture of humor and despair.
“It looks that way, certainly,” I replied, feeling only the despair and
none of the humor.
We were glancing around rather hopelessly for some sign that Tom might
have made in his search. So far, there had been no telltale signs of any
human being, but here and there we noticed broken down wild growths
where some heavy footed night prowler had recently passed.
It must have been well on toward seven o’clock and the sun had not shown
any more than a faint line of sickly pinkish hue in the East. The skies
too, looked threatening and overcast. Clouds of ashen gray roofed the
summit of old Hogback and the ragged outer edges, like some
weatherbeaten circus top, seemed to lap over all the rest of the world.
The silence was rather depressing. The misty chill of that dark morning
had gotten into my system. Brent too, I noticed, had become unusually
quiet.
“Hadn’t we better find our way back again before this deluge traps us?”
I asked.
“I guess so,” Brent replied. He sauntered over toward the indomitable
looking wall of stone that shut off our progress in that direction.
“At least we _can_ go back,” I called to him and wishing he would give
up the idea of trying to cross over the cleft.
I stood there thinking how helpless mere Man really is in the face of
Nature. Why even that noisy brook whistling over the stones in the gully
was not daunted by that high mountain wall. It was tirelessly finding
its way until it finally rushed out and over the jagged rocks and thence
down into the foothills, white-foamed and free. My reverie was
interrupted by the sound of Brent’s voice.
“See what we have here! Looks like an old Roman bridge, doesn’t it?”
Not being able to see from where I stood, I moved towards Brent and saw
that the high wall had one really fine advantage. It had undoubtedly
taken ages to form, but there it surely was, a natural narrow bridge of
fallen rock. Hardly more than a ledge and too narrow to walk it; one
would have to crawl on hands and knees.
Besides, there was a jump of about eight or nine feet on the opposite
side before one could skirt the ravine and land safely. Beyond that, we
could see the thick woodland declining in the direction of camp. I
mentioned this to Brent.
“I know,” he said, “but all this doesn’t give us the slightest idea as
to where Tommy’s spent the night and where he is now.”
“I realize that, Brent,” I said. “Still I feel quite confident that Tom
is safe and knows what he’s doing. We’ll probably find him at camp when
we get there.” Perhaps I felt suddenly buoyed up at the sight of the
firm rocks ready to give us safe passage over the gully. I only know
that I wanted to get out of the deepening gloom of the mountains as
quickly as possible.
“If he’s not there, maybe Rivers will be able to suggest something,”
Brent ventured to say.
“He’s probably there,” I said, and feeling that my words had sounded
rather half-hearted.
Brent started for the narrow ledge and I followed slowly, so as to keep
a safe distance between us. Neither spoke until we were safe on firm
ground again.
I laughed nervously as I scooped and brushed the oozy green scum from my
clothes. The stuff was thick all along the ledge. Brent did the same.
And we both realized it had been a risky jump across that yawning chasm.
In a self-congratulatory mood for our good fortune, we moved
simultaneously toward the edge of the precipice and looked over. Almost
instantly Brent gave my arm a painful jerk and drew back.
“Heavens!” he cried, hoarsely. “Look what’s down there!” His head was
turned toward mine but his hand was outstretched and I followed the line
of his pointed finger.
Down in the gully, lying face downward and partly immersed in the swift
mountain brook was the form of a man.