Chapter XXX: Cries

When Westy left Uncle Jeb and started toward the cabin, he was frantically trying to dope out a plan with which to rescue Artie. A hundred and one ideas had already been half-formulated in his anxious mind, but none seemed logical when he tried to think of them being put into action.

He hadn’t asked Uncle Jeb’s advice, not only because he thought himself quite capable, but also because he didn’t wish to overtax Uncle Jeb’s needed strength by asking questions. He knew one thing, and that was, that the eagles wouldn’t give up their search until dark anyway. And it was better that he should get Artie out before pitch dark and get back to the cabin.

Hurrying along with Uncle Jeb’s rifle over one shoulder and the rope and lantern supported by his other arm, Westy could not help feeling a certain thrill. He felt like a real scout now, and an honest-to-goodness hunter. No one could possibly know what a glorious feeling it really was. There wasn’t the least bit of vanity or egotism about him, but nevertheless, just this once, he cherished a secret desire that his father, mother and sister might see him thus.

His thoughts he did not let interfere with his progress, for his flying feet had already outdistanced them, as it was still quite light when he began the last descent to the lake. The nearer he came the more fearful he was that perhaps it would be too late.

A half-finished prayer was still on his lips, as he swung out of the trail by the open lake. Walking over to the spot where he had left the dead bird, he raised his eyes apprehensively toward the hollow. He gasped!

There, perched on the ledge of the hollow, was an eagle, wings spread, as if for attack!

He frantically tried to perceive if Artie was moving within, but the eagle’s spread wings screened Artie--if he was still there, alive----

“It can’t be possible,” he cried aloud, “that God would be so unmerciful!” Unashamed he dashed away the tears that were streaming down his cheeks. His cry echoed all around in the Pass.

It must have attracted the bird’s attention, for Westy could see that it had turned on the ledge of the hollow and was looking down to the spot where he was standing. Then to his great joy, he heard a cry, a human voice, almost plaintive in tone.

The eagle, evidently nonplussed, flew back to the precipice with a screech that was awful to hear.

Westy realized with a deep sense of relief that not only had he been given an inspiration, but he had also succeeded in combating the bird’s purpose, whatever it was, for the time being, at least. He now emitted a cry more cogently this time and valiantly tried to imitate the eagle’s screech.

It answered!

Again and again Westy would cry and each time he was rewarded with an answer. But he knew he could not waste valuable time by keeping it up. It would be dark before a half hour elapsed. Then his face brightened as his eye lighted upon the still figure lying under his scarf.

“Will it do any good?” he questioned quite loud. “I wonder! Yet, it might work at that!”

Taking the bird in his arms and screaming intermittently, as before, Westy started up the trail at breakneck speed, keeping his eye all the while on the hollow opposite and the precipice above it.

The eagle was now pacing to and fro on the ledge, giving Westy cry for cry.

It was a decidedly difficult thing for Westy to do, running up-hill at the pace he was and using his lung power to the limit besides.

By the time he reached the cliff he was exhausted. His throat was sore and he thought that perhaps when he finally got through shouting, he would certainly never be able to yell again. That, in itself, would be a tragic calamity to a scout such as Westy Martin.