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Peril Finders

<h3>Chapter Forty Two.</h3> <h4>How to Turn Round.</h4> There was another puff of smoke, and another, followed by their cracks and echoes; a few moments’ pause, and two more, with the result that every Indian on the ledge disappeared, two of them falling prone, to lie motionless, the others to hurry to where their companions held the reins that had been passed to them. Chris saw nothing of this, but at every report coming from down in the depression his heart leaped, knowing as he did that the sharp cracks were the reports of rifles, and that these could only be fired by his friends. From clinging there half stunned and perfectly inert, he felt a thrill of energy begin to move within him—a thrill which became a spasm as all at once he saw something moving that looked like an animal crawling over the edge of the cliff about fifty feet diagonally away from where he lay. As the object passed from behind some intervening trees he could see plainly enough that it was an Indian grasping a bow, and the top of his quiver could be seen above his shoulder. Chris was alert now, and grasped the fact that this was another of the enemy making his way down to a big patch of pensile growth which would afford him cover, from whence he could direct his arrows either at his <ANTIMG src="images/peril382.jpg" alt=""> watcher or at those who had fired upward from the valley. “Could I?” he asked himself, with the desire for life once more throbbing strongly in his veins. He began to prove his position. He had lain clinging with all his might to that stone ever since he had fallen, in the full belief that if he slackened his hold he would glide off into the depths and fall to the bottom; but as in his calmer frame of mind he began to test this, he found that loosening his desperate grasp made no difference, that where he lay was fairly level, and that he was safe enough so long as he could retain his nerve. His left arm ached violently, but there was nothing the matter with his right, and to his great satisfaction his rifle was beside him, with pouch, pistol, and hunting-knife. He began to examine his rifle-lock, and found all was right there, and that by moving a little he could place the stone between himself and his enemy so that he would not only have a breastwork over which to fire, but a protection to turn aside arrows sent for his destruction. He turned cautiously aside, for he felt that cunning eyes might be watching him; but in spite of the caution he could not evade the quick glance of the watching enemy. Chris grasped the fact, and quick as thought, as his rifle now rested upon the top of the stone, brought the sight to bear upon the Indian. It was to save his life, he knew, for his enemy was as quick in his movements as he, with the result that a well-aimed arrow flashed across the intervening distance like a ray of light, which was quenched in the puff of white smoke which darted from the boy’s rifle. Then simultaneously with the report there was a sharp click, and the tough reed-like piece of wood glanced away, diverted from the object at which it was aimed, while as Chris peered with starting eyes over the top of the stone which had saved him from a grievous wound, if not from death, he saw beneath the smoke which floated upwards another of the Indians rolling over three or four times before descending into the depths below with ever-gathering speed. There was another chorus of yells from overhead, and though he could not see them, Chris felt assured that the enemy were raging about the top of the cliff, seeking to send arrows at him; and he had additional proof of this being a fact, for crack!—crack!—crack!—crack! four reports came from below, with what effect he could not tell, but it seemed certain that his friends had fired at the enemy, whose yelling ceased, a strange and terrible silence succeeding the cries. Chris re-loaded his empty barrel and looked sharply in several directions, mostly in that from which danger had shown itself, and with the full intention of firing at the first enemy who tried to reach the spot which commanded his resting-place. But the silence continued, and there was no sign of a renewed attack. Then all at once there was a fresh beating of the pony’s hoofs from below, where everything was hidden. This was followed by a sharp scrambling sound, and again by a tremendous rush as of earth and stones sliding down for awhile before reaching the bottom with a crash. “My poor nag!” groaned Chris, and in imagination he saw the crushed and bleeding body of the sturdy little steed lying motionless amidst the heap of stones. The fancy was so horribly vivid that he shivered as if from a cold wind passing over him, while all the time he was bathed with perspiration. The old dread of slipping from the narrow ledge upon which he lay came back, and with a terrible feeling of despair he waited for the moment when he would again be falling swiftly through the air to share the fate of his mount. He had just reached this point when, sounding rather faint and distant but perfectly clear, he heard a familiar voice calling him by name. But in his state of painful agitation he could make no reply, only lie motionless and ready to ask himself whether he had not conjured up the call himself. But it was no fancy! It was his father’s voice, sounding as if sent forth with a great effort between hands held on either side of the speaker’s lips. “Chris! Chris!” And perfectly clearly now a repetition of the words in a husky whisper from somewhere close at hand. The Indians were above him, he knew, and it was like telling them exactly where he lay; but the boy felt that at all risks he must reply, and bending over a little so as to direct his voice downwards, he shouted— “Ahoy! Here!” Ahoy! Here! The softly-whispered echo of the cry, not from close at hand, but from the face of the cliff far away. But there was another and more ominous sound, or rather burst of sounds, at this, for a chorus of savage yells arose from the top of the cliff above him, and he knew that the Indians must have exposed themselves once more, for a couple of shots rang out from far below, raising strange echoes from the end of the valley, and once more there was the terrible silence in which Chris crouched hopelessly, for more than ever now he felt the crux in which he was placed—to attempt to move was to fall or expose himself to the arrows waiting for him on the top of the cliff. The next minute the black cloud of hopelessness seemed to be cut by the voice which came up out of the depths—the voice that told him his friends were watching and waiting—as he felt must be the case—to fire at the first Indian who showed himself above the top of the cliff. “Chris!” So low and distant, but so clear. “Chris!” “Ahoy! Coo-ee!” shouted the boy downward, and from between his hands. This time there was no answering yell, and Chris listened to the words that came up, sending a thrill of joy through him, but at the same time a strange tremor of fear. “Can you hear?” came now. “Yes.” “Then—listen,” came with very slow emphasis. “You—must—creep—gully—lower—self—down.” Chris was silent as he sat staring down as it seemed into nothing but the clear air, for the stone to which he had clung projected from the cliff-face, just as the parts above him overhung as if about to fall. “Hear?” came from below. The single word was so sharp and imperative that the boy replied at once, shouting the one word, “Can’t!” And then, as if ashamed of himself for so shrinking a reply, he alluded to one only of the dangers which hemmed him in by crying out, “Indians!” Chris’s heart leaped again, and hope grew brighter, for he more fully grasped his situation from the next words that came, though he had pretty well understood it before. “Dare—not—show.” But the words had hardly been uttered before Chris felt that he knew more than his friends, for his strained and wandering eyes, which shrank from gazing down into the awful depths below, suddenly became aware of a slight movement amongst the pensile growth between the summit and the spot from which the Indians had shot at him. He was in doubt for a few moments, and he held his breath as he cautiously brought his rifle to bear upon the hanging bush. But it did not stir, and it seemed evident that he had only imagined the danger. He had held his breath painfully while he watched, and now, feeling that he was wrong, and must say something to those below, he breathed again freely and was about to speak when his heart seemed to stand still again, for one swinging bough was slightly agitated and pressed aside, showing the glistening, copper-hued skin of an Indian’s shoulder, with the strap of a quiver-sling plainly in view. The man was evidently crawling like a short thick serpent to reach a spot from which he could shoot; but it was not to be, for covering the Indian’s side the boy waited a full minute to see if a better opportunity presented itself; and it came, for after lying perfectly still for awhile the man raised himself a little as if to clear something in his way, and then gave a spasmodic jerk, rolled over sidewise, and came gliding out from beneath the hanging growth, to fall like those who had gone before. “How horrible!” thought Chris with a shudder, as he re-charged the barrel he had just fired. Then bitterly, “More horrible for poor father if it had been Chris Lee.” The excitement of this fresh attempt to reach him roused him to try whether he could not obey the order that had been shouted from below, while the needed spur was now applied in the shape of the one word which rose up, perfectly clear— “Try!” The boy’s answer took the form of obedience. Glancing upward to see that he was quite hidden, and again at the ledge from which the arrows had come, Chris passed his rifle-sling over his head and one shoulder, got the piece well over his back, and flattening himself down upon his chest, edged himself along to get his head a little beyond the stone of shelter so that he could look down, when he turned icy with the shiver that ran up his spine. For he was gazing down a perpendicular portion of the cliff-face to a patch of bushes fully two hundred feet below. “Oh, it’s impossible!” he cried; but as he uttered the words once more the command came up— “Try!” “Ah, he doesn’t know,” groaned the boy despairingly, as he shrank shivering back to his old position, to lie still for a minute, feeling the palms of his hands grow wet. But the sound of that word try seemed to be echoing on his ear, and thrusting himself more away from the edge of the shelf over which he had peered, he wrenched his head round to see whether there was any possible ledge or slope on the other side of the stone where he had looked before and had seen as it were that it projected right out. Once more his heart seemed to leap, for as he looked after backing a little more, he could see that his feet rested on a ledge formed by one band of the shale projecting about a foot beyond that above, while two yards or so beyond this ledge was broken sharply away. What was beyond he could not see, but the ledge was certainly safer than the spot he occupied, there being room for him to lie down, and, better still, he could see that he would be better screened from any attack made from the ledge or the clump of bushes, the stone and an angle of the cliff being between the ledge and the dangerous foes. It was a case of its being only the first step that costs. Chris had begun to try, and forcing himself backward along the ledge inch by inch, he soon had the satisfaction of feeling that he was more hidden from the danger of being shot at than he expected, while the cliff-wall at whose foot he lay completely screened him from above. There was a hopefulness about this, a feeling of being rewarded for his effort to try, which nerved the boy to continue, in spite of the difficulties attending his backward progress and the way in which his rifle caught against the wall, and his having to stop again and again to readjust the holster of his revolver, which kept on slipping round. “This going backward is horrible,” he said to himself at last, as he paused rather out of breath to look anxiously about him, but felt in better heart upon again seeing how thoroughly he was screened from the Indians. The danger was not there, and he had nothing to mind on one side where the rock-wall went right up, probably to the tableland above, which, for aught he knew to the contrary, might come right to the edge of the mass of earth and stone. That which he had to fear was the horrible vacancy on his left, over which, had he cared to, he could have stretched out his hand; but though more than once tempted to do so, he shrank from it with a shudder. “But I must do something,” he thought. “I can’t go on backwards like this.” He waited a little while to let his breath come and go more easily, and while he lay there resting upon his chest he thought. He reasoned with himself in a kind of argument and appeal to his common-sense. “This natural shelf,” he said, “is about a foot wide, and if it were only just above the ground I should feel not the slightest nervousness, but be ready to stand up and run along it, instead of creeping back like a worm. Suppose it does go down hundreds of feet, what then? There is just as much room, and it only wants pluck. If I couldn’t run along it I might walk steadily. I will.” But he did not begin. The horror of that great unknown depth was too hard to master; but he raised himself slowly on all fours to see if he could not turn himself round so as to crawl the rest of the way head first instead of feet. It seemed very simple, but at the first trial his rifle caught tightly, and he was attacked by a sensation as of something thrusting at him hard, so that he closed his eyes and remained for some seconds with his head projecting over the edge of the shelf before he shuffled himself back into his former position, and then lay panting till the breathlessness that had attacked him passed away, leaving a sensation of anger against himself for his want of firmness. “Oh, it’s cowardly,” he muttered fiercely. “I can’t go on backwards, and I must and will do it. But how?” He thought more calmly at last, and it seemed plain enough. All he had to do, it seemed, was to take fast hold of some projection in the rock, so as to steady himself, and then— No, that wouldn’t do. “I see,” he panted the next minute. “Turn over on my back. But is there room?” This required a good deal of anxious thought, for failure meant plunging down at once into the depths below. “There must be room enough,” he panted, “if I keep on edging myself close to this great wall of rock.” He hesitated no longer, but setting his teeth hard and moving by inches, and battling with the hindrances offered by the weapons he carried, he wrenched himself round till he lay flat upon his back, gazing upward calmly enough in spite of one terrible half-minute he had passed, when it seemed to him that his rifle was acting as a lever to thrust him right off. “But that was only fancy,” he said to himself now the danger was past, “and all I have got to do is to take hold tightly of the rock with my right-hand and of some block or projection in this wall with my left, let my legs glide over the edge, and sit up. It only means my legs swinging over the gulf. Then I can get on to my hands and knees and go forward easily enough, while my rifle won’t be in the way. “Only means my legs swinging over the gulf,” said Chris again, this time aloud, in a peevish, low voice. “Only! Oh, I can’t do it,” he groaned, and then breathlessly and without giving himself an opportunity to shrink, he said aloud, “I will.” The next minute he had begun making the effort—seizing the edge of the rock and reaching up overhead to feel about till his fingers sank into a crevice, and then, panting heavily, he made one brave effort, holding on tightly and letting his legs glide over, while he stiffly raised himself up, moving as it were upon a pivot, that pivot being the base of his spine. “There,” he cried triumphantly, as the result of his effort was that he was sitting upright on the ledge with his feet in the air, but not swinging, for he pressed his heels hard against the rock beneath him, as he glanced sidewise to think of how he was to make his next movement. “Chris! Ahoy! Chris!” came faintly from below, and at the same moment there was a sharp crack, and the ledge upon which he was sitting gave way, dropping down with its burden, many feet on either side of him parting clean from the wall of rock, just as if it had been riven off by some mighty wedge. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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