Atlanta Daily World

CHAPTER 35

When Slade Considine and Martha Kilgore reached Bacho and saw him stir, Slade said, "You crazy, brave little fool! You must have known you didn't have a long enough rope to scale that cliff. There's no sense in three of us roasting!"

Bacho grinned at him, then looked at Martha. "Shoot once so Frenchy will know to throw the rope down. We're going to need it."

Martha obeyed, Bacho tried to sit up, then sank back with a funny wry look on his face. The girl knelt quickly beside him. "Bacho, you're hurt!"

"Jolly well got a kink in my back! My right ankle seems to be broken, I can't walk, but I hope I can still swim."

Slade looked at him as if he thought he had suddenly gone a little crazy.

"Catch that rope when it comes down, Slade," said Bacho. "Tie one end of it around your waist, one around Martha, and put me in the middle so we will both be there to help pull Martha. There's an old beaver den behind that big rock on this side of the pool. Wynn says if we dive deep enough to get under it, then we can pull ourselves up into the den."

They did as he said, working fast, for the whole cabin was a crackling inferno now, showering them with live sparks. They knew that before long the grass and trees even on this side of the creek would be in flames.

Martha and Slade crossed their wrists for a pack saddle and carried the little man down to the edge of the pool.

As the cowboy stood ready to dive in first, he said, "If I yank twice, then pull hard, you slide on in, Bacho. Think you can do it?"

The little man nodded cheerfully. "Righto! Shove off, me hearty!"

Slade gasped when he slid into the pool. The contrast between the icy water and the terrific heat above was for the moment paralyzing. He paddled over toward the big rock and found that near it the pull of the current was much less. For a moment he treaded water, then when his feet did not touch bottom, he dived under the rock, keeping one hand extended to feel his way.

Six feet back he suddenly bumped up against a solid bank. He felt cautiously with his hands, then pulled himself up over what seemed to be a rocky ledge. He was in the cave now. It was small—when he tried to sit up straight he bumped his head on the roof—and pitch black inside. The rock he was sitting on was wet and slick, it smelled dank and mouldy, but the air was warmer than the stream and for a moment it felt good to his chilled body.

He gave two yanks on the rope that was to be the signal for Bacho, then began pulling steadily. He knew then by the dead, heavy weight on the rope that the little herder was hurt worse than he pretended. When Slade lifted him up into the cave, Bacho fell back on the rock with a soft little groan that seemed to come from between clenched teeth.

Slade yanked on the rope again, and a minute later helped Martha over the edge. Her teeth were chattering as she climbed up.

"Br-r-r! I didn't think even ice ever got as cold as that water. Gee, it feels nice and warm in here!"

Slade knew it wouldn't be for long. Already he was beginning to feel the chill. He slid over closer to Martha and put his arm around her.

She leaned back against him grateful for the warmth of his body. "How long do you suppose we will have to stay in here?" she asked him.

"Two or three hours anyhow. It will be morning before we can cross the vega."

Bacho heaved a sigh that was more like a moan held in between clenched teeth. He was hurt badly—his back twisted or even broken—but he was gamely trying not to show it. And there was nothing either Slade or Martha knew to do for him, except keep talking to keep his mind off his pain as much as possible.

"How come you rode back up to the Valle looking for me?" Slade asked the girl.

"It was Granny. She knew as soon as she looked at him that Jim Ned had been murdered. I thought you had probably come back here to settle with Wynn."

"Offhand that looked like a pretty neat accidental murder—but they must have been in too big a hurry to be careful. I noticed that both Jim Ned's pants legs were all torn and dirty. Jim Ned was a short man and that dun of his a tall horse. If he had been drug from a boot hung in a stirrup, one leg would have been clean off the ground mighty near his waist. The only way a man could get as messed up as Jim Ned was—was for him to have been drug by a rope—behind a saddle!"

Bacho took another long, pain-racked breath and let it out slowly. "A man always makes a mistake with Paul Reynolds & Sc 19:8cMEarker