CHAPTER X.
A BATTLE IN MID–AIR.
But Jack Merrill’s mind never worked quicker or to better effect thanin an emergency. He perceived the instant that the creature crouchedthat its intention was to spring on him. Swift as a flash he reacheddown and seized a stone.
As the bob–cat hurled itself into the air Jack’s arm shot out. Thestone sped from his hand and caught the creature fairly between theeyes. Had a bullet struck it the animal could not have been checkedmore effectually. It dropped to the ground, rolled up in a furry ball,scratching and spitting furiously, and then, with a yowl of rage andpain, it lost its footing on the edge of the watercourse.
The last Jack saw of it the creature plunged over the brink of theprecipice up which the Border Boy had so laboriously toiled. As heheard the body go rolling and bumping down toward the valley, Jackshuddered. Had things turned out differently he might have been inits place, for the boy well knew that if once the maddened animal hadfastened its claws in him he would not have stood a chance without aweapon.
Jack sat down to rest once more, this time keeping a cautious lookoutfor any other wild creatures; but none appeared, and it was evidentthat his theory that the animal had accidentally dropped from above wasa correct one.
“Well,” said Jack to himself, after an interval, “if I’m to get to thetop of that cliff I’ve got to start in right now. Ugh! It doesn’t lookas if I could possibly make it; but then it’s equally certain that Ican’t climb down again. The thought makes me sick; so I’ve _got_ totackle it. There’s no other way out of it.”
Fortifying himself by a cooling drink, to which he added another wash,the boy prepared to take up his task again.
Above the dry watercourse the cliff shot up more precipitously thanthe part he had already traversed below it; but Jack steeled himselfto the thought of the dizzy climb. Knife in hand he worked his wayup, clinging to the face of the cliff desperately at times, and againresting where some vagrant bush offered him a hand or foothold.
In the meantime, below in the valley, Alvarez, returning from a huntfor more food, began to worry about the boy. Not a bad man at heart,Alvarez was a true son of the Mexican revolution. He decided that allAmericans, or Gringoes, as he contemptuously called them, were the bornfoes of the Mexicans. It had been with this conviction that he and hiscompanions had set out to spy on the Rangers who, they thought, menacedthem, instead of merely patrolling the Border to prevent lawless actson American soil.
Since his brief acquaintance with Jack, however, Alvarez had foundcause to revise his opinion. Himself a courageous man, he admiredcourage and grit in others, and of these qualities we know Jackpossessed full and abundant measure.
Returning, then, from his hunt with some quail and rabbits, Alvarezbegan to be seriously alarmed about Jack. Not for one moment did theMexican deem it possible that the lad could have actually found a wayto scale those awful cliffs. He had confidently expected that on hisreturn to camp he would find Jack awaiting him. When, therefore, hecould see no trace of the boy his alarm was genuine and deep.
He carefully deposited his game out of harm’s way in the trees, andthen set out to see if he could find any trace of the boy to whom hehad become attached in their short acquaintance.
As he advanced below the cliffs he carefully scanned the foot of theprecipitous heights for what he dreaded to find; for Alvarez had begunto fear that Jack had made a daring attempt to escape and summon helpand had met death in a fearful fall from the rocky crags.
“The boy would have been mad to attempt such a climb,” he muttered, ashe moved along, “why, not even a mountain goat could find a footholdup yonder. It is impossible that he should have tried such a thing.It would have been sheer madness. And yet—and yet when it comes tosuch things the Gringoes are assuredly mad. They will dare anything itseems.”
Musing thus the Mexican traversed the greater part of the valley,pondering deeply over the possible fate of his young friend.
“It is a thing without explanation that he could have climbed even afew feet up those cliffs,” ran the burden of his thoughts; “yet if hehas not, why do I not see a trace of him here below?”
“_Caramba!_ Can it be that he has slipped on a lofty crag and issuspended high above the valley, injured, perhaps dying, and beyondreach of human aid?”
On and on trudged the Mexican, growing more and more alarmed everyinstant.
Suddenly, as he cast his eye up toward the summit of a lofty precipice,his attention was caught by an object moving slowly up its surface,like a fly on a high wall.
The Mexican gazed steadily at it. He believed that it was an eagleor condor hovering about its nest in the dizzy heights, but stillsomething odd about the moving object arrested and gripped hisattention irresistibly.
“No, it is not an eagle,” he muttered, “but, then, what is it? Noquadruped could climb that cliff. What, then, can it be?”
The sun was sinking low over the western wall of the cañon and thevalley itself was beginning to be shrouded in purple shadow. But atthat great height the light was still bright. Suddenly the movingobject emerged from a patch of shade cast by an overhanging rock.
Simultaneously the Mexican almost sprang into the air under the shockof his amazement. He crossed himself and then his lips moved.
“By the Saints! It’s Jack Merrill!” he cried, in a hollow voice.
For an instant he stood like a thing of wood or stone, every musclerigid in terrible suspense. And all the time that tiny speck on thecliff face was moving slowly and painfully upward.
Clasping his hands the Mexican stood riveted to the spot. Then his drylips began to move.
“The saints aid him! The brave boy is working his way to the top of thecliff. He has neared its summit. But can he win it? And, see, there arethe steps he has cut in the lower cliff face. It must be that he isworking his way upward still by those means. Santa Maria! What courage!
“I dare not call out to him. At that fearful height one backward lookmight cause him to lose his hold and plunge downward like a stone. Oh,if I could only help, only do something to aid him! But, no, I muststand here helpless, unable to move hand or foot.
“Never again will I say anything against a Gringo. No boy south of theBorder would dare such a feat. See now! _Caramba!_ For an instant heslipped. I dare not look.”
The Mexican buried his face in his hands and crouched on the ground.Emotional as are all of his race, the sight of that battle between lifeand death, hundreds of feet above him, had almost unstrung him.
At last he dared to uncover his eyes again and once more fixed them onthe toiling atom on the sunlit cliff face.
But now he burst out into tones of joy.
“Sanctissima Maria! See, he is almost at the summit. Oh, brave Gringo!Climb on. May your head be steady and your hands and feet nimble.”
The sweat was pouring down the Mexican’s face, his knees smote togetherand his hands shook as he stood like one paralyzed, stock still,watching the outcome of Jack Merrill’s fearful climb. His breath camefast and the veins on his forehead stood out like whip cords. As hewatched thus his lips moved in constant, silent prayers for the safetyof the young Border Boy.
At last he saw the infinitesimal speck that was Jack Merrill reach thesummit of that frowning height. He saw the boy thrust his knife intohis belt, and watched him place one hand on the ridge of the precipiceand draw himself up.
The next instant the cliff face was bare of life. The fight with deathhad been won. But Alvarez as he saw Jack attain safety on the summitof the precipice sank back with a groan. The strain under which he hadlabored had caused the Mexican to swoon.
As he lay there perfectly still three figures appeared at the upperend of the valley in the direction of the Pool of Death. They beganadvancing down the valley just as Alvarez opened his eyes and staggereddizzily to his feet.
The Border Boys with the Texas Rangers Page 11