Out of the Depths: A Romance of Reclamation

  CHAPTER XVIII

  ON THE BRINK

  Early to bed, early to rise. The two men were up at dawn. During thenight the coyotes had sneaked into the camp. But Blake had fastenedthe food in the chuck-box and slung everything gnawable up in thebranches out of reach of the sly thieves.

  At sunrise the two started out on their day's work, Ashton carryinghis rifle and canteen and the level rod, Blake with the level and abag containing their lunch and a two-quart sirup-can of water.

  "We'll run a new line from the dike bench, around the hill and acrossthe valley the way we rode out yesterday," said the engineer, as theyclimbed the slope above the waterhole. "That will give us a check bycross-tying to the line of the creek levels where it runs into thegulch."

  "Can't you trust to the accuracy of your own work?" asked Ashton withevident intent to mortify.

  Blake smiled in his good-natured way. "You forget the first rule ofengineering. Always check when you can, then re-check and checkagain.--Now, if you'll kindly give me a reading off that bench."

  Ashton complied, though with evident ill will. He had wakened in goodspirits, but was fast returning to his sullenness of the previous day.He took his time in going from the bench-mark to the first turningpoint. Blake moved up past him with inspiring briskness, but theyounger man kept to his leisurely saunter. In rounding the corner ofthe hill twice as much time was consumed as was necessary.

  When they came to the last turn at the foot of the rocky slope, wherethe line struck out across the valley towards the foot of the mountainside, Ashton paused to roll a cigarette before holding his rod for thereading. Small as was the incident, it was particularly aggravating toan engineer. The reading would have taken only a moment, and he couldthen have rolled his cigarette and smoked it while Blake was movingpast him for the next "set up." Instead, he deliberately kept Blakewaiting until the cigarette had been rolled and lighted.

  Blake "pulled up" his level and started forward, his face impassive.Ashton leaned jauntily on the rod, sucked in a mouthful of smoke, andraising his cigarette, flicked the ash from the tip with his littlefinger. At the same instant a bullet from the crags above him piercedthe crown of his hat. He pitched forward on his face, rolled halfover, and lay quiet.

  Most men would have been dumfounded by the frightful suddenness of theoccurrence--the shot and the instant fall of Ashton. It was like astroke of lightning out of a clear sky. Blake did not stand gapingeven for a moment. As Ashton's senseless body struck the ground, hesprang sideways and bent to lay down his instrument, with theinstinctive carefulness of an old railroad surveyor. A swift rushtowards Ashton barely saved him from the second bullet that camepinging down from the hill crest. It burned across the back of hisshoulder.

  Heedless of the blood spurting from the wound in the side of Ashton'shead, Blake snatched up the automatic rifle and fired at a pointbetween two knobs of rock on the hill crest. Promptly a hat appeared,then an arm and a rifle. It might have been expected that a bulletwould have instantly followed; yet the assassin was strangelydeliberate about getting his aim. Blake did not wait for him. He beganto fire as fast as the automatic ejector and reloader set the rifletrigger. Three bullets sped up at the assassin before he had time todrop back out of sight.

  Blake started up the hillside, his pale eyes like white-hot steel. Hewas in a fury, but it was the cold fury of a man too courageous forreckless bravado. He went up the hill as an Apache would have charged,dodging from cover to cover and, wherever possible, keeping in linewith a rock or tree in his successive rushes. At every brief stop hescanned the ridge crest for a sign of his enemy. But the assassin didnot show himself. For all that Blake could tell, he might be waitingfor a sure shot, or he might be lying with a bullet through hisbrain.

  To avoid suicidal exposure, the engineer was compelled to veer off tothe right in his ascent. He reached the ridge crest without a shothaving been fired at him. Leaping suddenly to his feet, he scrambledup to the flat top of a high crag, from which he could peer down uponthe others. The natural embrazure from which the assassin had firedwas exposed to his view; but the place was empty. He looked cautiouslyabout at the many huge bowlders behind which a hundred men might havebeen crouching unseen by him, advantageous as was his position. Toflush the assassin would require a bold rush over and around therocks.

  Blake set his powerful jaw and gathered himself together for the leapdown from his crag. At that moment his alert eye caught a glimpse of aswiftly moving object on the mesa at the foot of the far side of thehill. It was a horse and rider racing out of sight around the bend ofa ridge point.

  Blake whipped the rifle to his shoulder. But the cowardly fugitive haddisappeared. He lowered the rifle and started back down the hillfaster than he had come up. Leaping like a goat, sliding, rushing--heraced to the bottom in a direct line for Ashton.

  The victim lay as he had fallen, his head ghastly red with blood,which was still oozing from his wound. Blake dropped down beside theflaccid body and tore open the front of the silk shirt. He thrust inhis hand. For some moments he was baffled by the violent throbbing ofhis own pulse. Then, at last, he detected a heartbeat, very feeble andslow yet unmistakable.

  He turned Ashton on his side, and washing away the blood with waterfrom the canteen, examined the wound with utmost carefulness. Thebullet had pierced the scalp and plowed a furrow down along the sideof the skull, grazing but not penetrating the bone.

  "Only stunned.... Mighty close, though," muttered Blake. He looked atthe ashen face of the wounded man and added apprehensively, "Tooclose!... Concussion--"

  Hastily he knotted a compress bandage made of handkerchiefs andneckerchiefs around the bleeding head, and stretching Ashton flaton his back, began to pump his arms up and down as is done inresuscitating a drowned person. After a time Ashton's face beganto lose its deathly pallor. His heart beat less feebly; he drew in adeep sighing breath, and stared up dazedly at Blake, with slowlyreturning consciousness.

  "I'll smoke all I please and when I please," he murmured in asupercilious drawl.

  Blake dashed his face with the cupful of water still left in thecanteen. The wounded man flushed with quick anger and attempted torise.

  "What--what you--How dare you?" he spluttered, only to sink back witha groan, "My head! O-o-oh! You've smashed my head!"

  "You're in luck that your head _wasn't_ smashed," replied Blake. "Itwas a bullet knocked you over."

  "Bullet?" echoed Ashton.

  "Yes. Scoundrel up on the hill tried to get us both."

  "Up on the hill?" Ashton twisted his head about, in alarm, to look atthe hill crest. "But if he--He may shoot again."

  "Not this time. I went up for him. He went down faster, other side thehill. Saw him on the run. The sneaking--" Blake closed his lips on theword. After a moment his grimness relaxed. "Came back to start yourfuneral. Found you'd cheated the undertaker. How do you feel now?"

  "I believe I--" began Ashton, again trying to raise himself, only tosink back as before. "My head!--What makes me so weak?"

  "Don't worry," reassured Blake. "It's only a scalp wound. You are weakfrom the shock and a little loss of blood. I'll get you a drink frommy can, and then tote you into camp. You'll be all right in a day ortwo."

  He fetched the can of water from his bag, which he had dropped besidethe level. Ashton drank with the thirstiness of one who has lostblood. When at last his thirst was quenched, he glanced up at Blakewith a look of half reluctant apology.

  "I said something about your striking me," he murmured. "I did notunderstand--did not realize I had been shot. You see, just before--"

  "That's all right," broke in Blake. "I owe you a bigger apology. Lastevening, while you were out hunting, someone took a shot at me. Itmust have been this same sneaking skunk. I thought it was you."

  "You thought I could try to--to shoot you?" muttered Ashton.

  "Yes. There's the old matter of the bridge, and you seem to think I amresponsible for what your father has done. But after you came in, Isoon c
oncluded that you had fired towards the camp unintentionally."

  "If you had asked," explained Ashton, "I was around at the far end ofthese hills, nearly two miles from the camp, when I shot at the wolfand the rifle went wrong."

  "That was a fortunate occurrence--your going out and seeing the wolf;"said Blake. "If you hadn't taken that shot, we would not have knownyour rifle was out of gear. My first bullet merely made the sneak riseup to pot me. If the rapidity of the next three shots hadn't rattledhim, I believe he would have potted me, instead of running."

  "So that was it?" exclaimed Ashton. "Do you know, I believe it must bethe same scoundrel who attacked me the first day I rode down DryFork. No doubt he remembered how I ripped loose at him with theautomatic-catch set."

  "Your thieving guide?" said Blake. "But why should he try to killme?"

  "I'm sure I don't know," murmured Ashton. "Another drink, please."

  "I shall tote you back to camp, and--No, I'll lay you over there inthe shade and go up to see if he is in sight."

  Picking up the wounded man as easily as if he had been a child, theengineer carried him over under a tree, fetched him the can of water,and for the second time climbed the rocky hillside. Scaling hislookout crag, he surveyed the country below him. A mile down the creektwo riders were coming up towards the waterhole at an easy canter. Hesurmised that they were his wife and Miss Knowles.

  Their approach brought a shade of anxiety into his strong face. Heswept the landscape with his glance. A little cloud of dust far out onthe mesa towards Split Peak caught his eye. He looked at itsteadfastly under his hand, and drew a deep breath of relief as hemade out a fleeing horse and rider.

  He descended to Ashton, and taking him up pick-a-back, swung away forthe camp with long, swift strides. Before he had gone half thedistance, he felt Ashton's arms loosening their clasp of his neck. Hecaught him as he sank in a swoon. Without a moment's hesitation, heslung his senseless burden up on his shoulder like a sack of meal, andhastened on faster than before.

  Swiftly as he walked, the ladies reached the camp before him. When hecame to the top of the dike slope, his wife had dismounted and Isobelwas handing down the baby to her. As the girl slipped out of thesaddle she looked up the slope. With a startled cry, she darted tomeet Blake.

  Quick to forestall her alarm, he called in a gasping shout: "Notserious--not serious!"

  "Oh, Tom--Mr. Blake!" she cried. "What has happened?"

  "Scalp wound--faint--blood loss," Blake panted in terse answer.

  "He is wounded? O-o-oh!" She ran up and looked fearfully at thebloodsoaked bandages across Ashton's hanging head.

  Blake staggered on down the slope without pausing. Genevieve hadstarted to meet him. But at her husband's panting explanation, shelaid the baby on the nearest soft spot of earth and darted to thekit-chest. She was opening a "first aid" box when Blake crashedthrough the bushes and sank down with his burden under the firsttree.

  Genevieve hastened towards the men, calling to her companion: "Water,Chuckie--that pail by the fireplace."

  The girl flew to fetch a bucket of water from the pool.

  Blake was peering anxiously down into Ashton's white face."Didn't--know--but--that--" he panted.

  "No," reassured his wife. "He will soon be all right."

  She drew the unconscious man flat on his back and held a bottle ofammonia to his nostrils. The powerful stimulant revived him just asthe girl came running back with the water. He opened his eyes, and thefirst object they rested upon was her anxious pitiful face. He smiledand whispered gallantly: "Don't be afraid. I'm all right--now!"

  "Then I'll drink first," said Blake.

  He took a deep draught from the pail, doused a hatful of water overhis hot head and face, and stretched out to cool off. Genevieve,assisted by the deeply concerned girl, took the handkerchief bandagefrom Ashton's head and washed the wound with an antiseptic solution.She then clipped away the hair from the edges and drew the scalptogether with a number of stitches.

  In this last the hardy cowgirl was unable to help. She claspedAshton's hand convulsively and sat shuddering. Ashton smiled up intoher tender pitying eyes. Genevieve had numbed his wound with cocaine.He was quite satisfied with the situation.

  Another antiseptic washing and a compress of sterilized cotton boundon with surgical bandages completed the operation. Then, when it wasall over with, the young mother, who had gone through everything withthe aplomb and deftness of a surgeon, quietly sank back in a faint. Onthe instant Blake was reaching for the ammonia bottle.

  A whiff restored his wife to consciousness. She opened her eyes, andsmiling at her weakness, sought to rise. He held her down with gentleforce and ordered her to lie quiet.

  "I shall fetch Tommy," he added. "We'll all take a _siesta_ untilnoon."