Chapter XIII: Washed Away

What had actually happened to Frank Allen might easily be termed tragedy. What made it all the stranger was the fact that he owed it to the frantic eagerness of his pony to escape the clutch of the oncoming flood.

Having been detained a little because meeting more obstacles than the others of the party, Frank was still in the canyon when the others turned out of it. Fascinated by the spectacle behind him, he turned his head in the act of climbing out to take one last fleeting look up the cut.

What he saw by the aid of the lightning was a sight that must always give him a queer chill, because of what followed so closely in its train.

A mighty wave was pouring down upon him, its crest foamy and leaping as if in glee. It was eight or ten feet high at most, but to the excited imagination of the boy it seemed doubly that.

The mere turning of his head as he did caused him to lose a fraction of his steadiness. At the same instant the pony made such a frantic leap forward that Frank lost his hold on the bridle. The next thing he knew something hit him squarely in the chest as with a sledge hammer, knocking him backward. It must have been one of the pony's recklessly flung hind hoofs, in the way of which Frank had tumbled.

Before the starred boy could more than struggle to his knees in the effort to escape his fate he was picked up by that roaring flood and borne swiftly along.

Fortunately for his own good, Frank managed to retain his wits, awkward and perilous as his situation now was. He threw out both arms and tried to clutch hold of such rocks as he came in contact with, usually the projecting knobs that were connected with the near wall, and perhaps six or more feet from the bed of the canyon.

Several times he managed to get some sort of a grip on such a welcome anchor, only to find he was utterly unable to maintain his hold. On each occasion the fierce current snatched him loose again, after almost dislocating his shoulder or his elbow.

One thing these several detentions did accomplish, and that was to retard his downward rush a little each separate time. So he was gradually falling back a dozen feet or more from the apex of that leading billow. Thus he presently found the water somewhat less agitated, though still mighty in its pull.

Buffeted and tossed like a chip, Frank Allen was fast losing the best of his strength, although his grit still held out. The never-say-die spirit such as he had exhibited on many a hard fought football field or a struggle for supremacy on the diamond, was fated to stand back of him again in this tussle with the on-rushing torrent.

When for the fourth time he managed to fasten his fingers, like the talons of that vulture Zander had shot on a projecting point of rock, he summoned every fibre of his whole being to conquer the drag of the current.

Inch by inch he felt he was succeeding. Past him the torrent still rushed, but he had reason to believe it did not have him wholly in its power as before.

So in another minute Frank was able to drag himself on to a friendly rock. He was so nearly spent by that time that it was with extreme difficulty he managed to keep his seat. Several times he almost toppled off his perch, which would have undoubtedly been his end, since he was now very weak.

By slow degrees his strength and will power came back, and a sense of deep gratitude filled his heart because of the Hand that seemed to have thus plucked him directly out of deadly danger.

But what should he do next?

He realized that of course the others of his party would be mystified on account of his absence and the appearance of his pony among the rest of the animals. There was no possible way, however, by which he could acquaint them with his wonderful escape from a terrible fate.

His first plan was to remain where he was until hours had passed and the flood fully subsided. Then, by dropping down into the canyon's bed once more, he could ascend its tortuous course until he found the fissure by means of which the party had climbed as he hoped, to safety.

Moving backward in order to make more certain that he would not slip and thus get into fresh trouble, Frank found that a crevice opened up in the wall of the cleft, wide enough for him to pass along.

It ascended, too, which was a plain invitation for him to continue as long as the going proved to be possible. All the while, he realized, he must be getting nearer the top of the lofty canyon wall, where he would find the surface of the mountainside.

One thing he discovered that pleased him--the rain had ceased. Also the roar of the thunder had dwindled to mere growlings in the distance.

"The storm's gone past," Frank told himself, eager to hear the sound of his own voice once more, for it would make his strange surroundings seem less gruesome. "At the worst, I'll only have to spend the rest of the night by myself on the mountain."

Such a possibility did not much concern a boy who had made many a lone camp in his days of hiking. Sometimes this had even been across an entire state, so as to enlarge his faculties and observe the wonders of nature, as well as rub up against such people as could be found in country backwoods and charcoal burners' camps.

Then came still another discovery. On looking up to find just how far above him the surface might be, what was his delight to see a bright star peeping in between the sides of the cleft in the rocks.

When three minutes afterwards Frank crept out of his "Jacob's Ladder," as he meant to call the friendly fissure, he found that the clouds had begun to roll away to leeward and many stars dotted the heavens overhead.

At any rate, he had nothing more to fear from the storm. But it had come close to being an expensive experience for him. As his nerves quieted down by degrees he felt more like himself, and able to grapple with any ordinary difficulty that might come along.

Everything was soaking wet, water even running from each outlying rock's surface. He himself was completely saturated; but as it still remained fairly warm Frank minded that not at all.

"Now what's to be done?" he asked himself, meaning to form his plan on the spot and then carry it out as best he could.

Of course, it was utterly useless to dream of attempting to find his party while darkness lasted. They might be far distant, unable to hear his shouts in case he raised his voice.

"More than that," Frank added, as an after-thought, "it would be a crime to tempt Lanky, or any of the others, to come down the face of this rocky mountain, risking all sorts of dangers they would not see in the dark. There must be many a precipice between their new camp and here, where a slip would spell death."

That point settled, Frank decided to try to pick out some half-way decent camp site and make the best of a bad bargain.

He had much to be grateful for, and, besides that, Frank Allen was never the boy to grumble because things did not chance to run as smoothly as he might have wished.

After looking as best he could around the vicinity, he settled on a certain spot as well adapted for his purposes. For one thing, there were several stumps of trees near by; and if only he could knock one of these to flinders by using a big rock in lieu of an ax, he conceived the idea that he would yet have a cheery blaze started.

Among other symptoms of eternal preparedness that were characteristic of Frank was his always making sure to carry a waterproof metal matchsafe, filled with "fire-sticks," in his pocket.

He had not been immersed in the water a great while, and felt absolutely certain his precious matches would be dry and ready for use. With this desire for comfort, as well as an opportunity for drying his clothes, spurring him on, Frank started work on what seemed to be the most promising of three stumps.

There was an abundance of half-dead wood lying around, wet, of course, after such a deluge; but he fancied he would have little difficulty in keeping a fire going, if only he found enough dry stuff to start kindling it.

His guess in connection with the heart of that stump proved to be a good one, for he soon had taken out sufficient dry stuff to answer all purposes. So, striking a match, he applied it to the tinder thus collected, and had the satisfaction of seeing a flame start up at once.

This he carefully and assiduously cherished and fed until he had collected quite a nice mess of red embers. Then he began to put on some of the other wood, and, as he anticipated it soon burst into a crackling blaze.

How good it felt to the wet boy, words could hardly tell. By degrees he managed to dry his clothes by keeping turning around like a teetotum, from one side to another, standing the heat as long as possible.

An hour had perhaps gone--Frank could tell only by the movement of the heavenly bodies, since water had got into his wrist watch and stopped the wheels from turning.

He found himself turning every little while toward the east, in the hope of seeing signs of dawn, even though good common sense told him that must still be an hour and more away.

Just as he began to feel what he called "dopey," sitting there by the warm fire, his head nodding, Frank caught a sound that disturbed his growing confidence that the worst was past. It was a series of queer, blood-curdling yelps that he guessed came from a pack of those fierce, mountain gray wolves Jerry had told him about. From the tenor of their eager howls, the boy knew they must be hunting for something toothsome with which to sate their ferocious appetites!