Chapter XV: 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 Crill had withdrawn, but he certainly would come back.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.