Chapter Twenty Two.
Perry’s Peril.
“There isn’t much to tell,” said the boy with a shiver.
“Never mind; tell me: I want to know. What’s the matter—cold?”
“No, I’m warm enough now,” said Perry, “for my clothes have got dry; but it makes me shiver as soon as I think about it, and I feel as if I always shall. It’s a thing I shall dream about of a night, and wake up feeling the water strangling me.”
Cyril looked at him in wonder, and the boy tried to smile, but it was a very pitiful attempt, and he went on hurriedly.
“You know how horrible all that was when I felt sure that my father had gone down somewhere, and something forced me to go and try to find him. And then, as I went on through the mist, I only took three or four steps before my feet gave way, and I was sliding at a terrible rate down, down to where the water was thundering and roaring.”
“Was it very deep?” said Cyril, for his companion paused.
“I don’t know; I seemed to be sliding along very fast, and then I was fighting for breath, and being dashed here and there, and I suppose I was carried along by the water almost as swiftly as I slid down that dreadful slope. Then, after fighting for my breath, all was confusion and darkness, and I can’t remember any more till I found myself lying among some rocks. The water was rushing and foaming over my legs, and every now and then rushing up over my chest, and making me feel so in fear of being drowned that I climbed a little, and then a little more, till I was out of the water, but afraid to move in the darkness in case I should fall in again.”
“Where were you?” said Cyril.
“I didn’t know then, but lay aching with the cold, and listening to the rushing water; while it was so dark, that I felt sure that I must have been washed into some great hole underground, where I should lie till I was dead.”
“We felt all kinds of horrors about you,” said Cyril, “but you seem to have suffered more than we did.”
“I don’t know,” said Perry plaintively. “It was very bad, though, and if I hadn’t fallen at last into a sort of stupor, I’ve thought since that I should have gone mad.”
“Stupor!” said Cyril, smiling. “You mean you went to sleep.”
Perry looked at him so reproachfully that Cyril felt the blood flush into his cheeks, and the colour deepened as his companion said: “How could a fellow go to sleep when he believes his father has been killed, and he has himself just escaped from a horrible death?”
“Don’t take any notice of what I said,” cried Cyril hurriedly; “I did not mean it.”
“I know you did not. I suppose it was from being so exhausted. I felt as if I had been stunned, and could neither think nor stir, and then this curious feeling came over me, and everything passed away. It was not sleep.”
“No, no; don’t say that again,” cried Cyril apologetically. “How long were you like that?”
“I don’t know, only that it was still dark when I came to, and sat wondering where I was, and whether I should ever see the light again, so miserable and desolate you cannot think.”
“Yes, I can,” said Cyril warmly; “I felt bad, too, when I thought you were drowned, and went down to try to find you.”
“What!” cried Perry excitedly. “You went down to try to find me?”
“Oh yes,” said Cyril coolly. “Didn’t you know? They put a rope round me and let me down.”
“Cil!”
“Well, don’t make a fuss about it,” said Cyril, laughing. “They had hold of the rope.”
“But the place was so awful. Didn’t you feel frightened?”
“Horribly, of course, and it was ever so much worse when I’d got to the end of the rope, and felt that you must be gone. But never mind that. Go on. You were saying how miserable you were.”
“Yes,” said Perry thoughtfully, “till all at once I caught sight of something high up, just as if it was a point of light coming through a crack in the roof of the cavern into which I had been washed.”
“And was it?”
“No,” said the boy, with his eyes brightening, “it was the first light of morning shining miles up on the ice of one of the great peaks, and as I watched it, I saw it get brighter and then begin to glow as if it were a precious stone. The light gradually stole down lower and lower, till it seemed to come right into my heart; and from that moment I began to grow strong and hopeful, and something seemed to tell me that I should see you all again.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Cyril, as he watched his friend’s countenance; “I wish something of that kind had come to me when I was feeling worst.”
“You weren’t alone,” said Perry, smiling. “Well, as soon as I found that I was just at the edge of a rushing torrent, I knew that if I followed it up, I should come to the mouth of the gorge where you must be, and I began to climb along the side, getting warmer every minute; and I felt more hopeful too, for I began to think how clever my father was, and that he would have been able to save himself, or have been saved, just as I was.”
“And then you soon found the mouth of the gorge where the water came out?”
“Yes, and the place where we turned in last night, instead of going right on down the main valley. It was quite a climb up to the path, but I dragged myself up; and just then I happened to turn my eyes along the way we came just as I was warmest, and then I turned cold again.”
“Because you saw the Indians?”
Perry nodded, and the boys sat in silence for a few minutes, looking up at the sunlit sky, which appeared like a broad jagged path running along high above their heads.
“What are you thinking about?” said Perry suddenly, as he noted the thoughtful, deeply-lined brow of his companion.
“Eh? Oh, nothing much,” replied Cyril. “Only that when I knew you were coming up into the mountains, I felt so jealous of you, and I fancied that you were coming to see all kinds of wonders and make great discoveries, and that it would be one grand holiday, day after day, and instead of that—I say, we haven’t had so very much fun yet, have we?”
“Plenty of adventures,” replied Perry thoughtfully.
“Yes, plenty of adventures.”
“It’s been so hard upon you, though, from the first. You were so upset when you joined us.”
“And serve me right,” cried Cyril angrily. “I’d no business to do it; I believe they think at home that I’m dead. Nothing’s too bad to happen to me.”
“Then you’re sorry you came?”
“Yes; horribly. I don’t mind all we’ve gone through, because it has seemed to stir me up so, and made me feel as if I’d got more stuff in me; and it ought to, for sometimes I’ve felt, since we came, that I behaved like a miserable, thoughtless coward.”
“No one could call you a coward,” said Perry firmly.
“Oh yes, they could—a miserable, selfish coward.”
“I should just like to hear any one call you one,” said Perry viciously, and with a hard, fierce look in his countenance.
“Then you soon shall,” said Cyril. “I call myself one a dozen times a day. There, I’m a coward.”
“But I meant some one else.”
“You wait long enough, and you’ll hear my father call me one.”
“You’re not.”
“Yes, I am, and I shall deserve all he says—that is, if we ever get back to San Geronimo.”
“Don’t talk like that,” said Perry. “What’s to prevent us?”
“Indians,” said Cyril mournfully.
“But we’ve left them behind.”
“For a bit. They’ll hunt us out again somewhere. They’ve got all the advantage of us. I daresay there are thirty or forty of them hunting us, and what one doesn’t know of the country, another does; and as they spread out, they’ll warn every Indian they meet, so as to run us down, for they’re sure to feel now that we’re after the buried treasures, and they’ll give us credit for having found them.”
“Why?”
“Because we have escaped. Every pass will be guarded, and every valley searched, so that they are sure to come across us at last.—Look, they’re going to start. Come along.” And picking up their guns, the boys joined the colonel and John Manning, who were tightening up the ropes round two of the loads.
“Better trust the leader, Manning,” said the colonel.
“Yes, sir. He seems as good as a guide; and if you set his head straight, he’ll take us somewhere; and where he goes, the others’ll follow. Rum thing, too, sir.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the colonel; “these animals have passed their lives in the mountains.”
“Of course, sir, but I didn’t mean that. I meant it was a rum thing for them to follow their leader in this way, for they all hate him like poison, and kick at him whenever they have a chance; and as for the way he kicks at them, I wonder sometimes he doesn’t get his heels stuck in their ribs, so that he can’t get out no more. ’Tis their natur’ to, eh, Master Cyril, sir?—Ah, would yer!”
This to one of the mules, whose heels must have itched, for it was softly turning itself round as if seeking somewhere to administer a good round kick.
Then all was ready for a start; but first the colonel mounted the side among the rocks, to search the valley with his glass.
He was soon satisfied that the Indians were nowhere within sight, and taking advantage of the high position he occupied, he turned the glass in the other direction, to scan the way they were about to go.
All there was utterly silent and desolate. There were the rocks everywhere, hardly relieved by a patch of green, and he was about to descend and start the mules, when he caught sight of Cyril hurrying back toward him, and signing to him to stay where he was.
“What is it?” he cried, as he saw the boy’s anxious face.
“Look up to your left, sir, just above where that big rock sticks out just as if it must fall.”
“Yes, I see,” said the colonel; “with another just above.”
“That’s it, sir. Look just between those two blocks.”
“Yes, I have the place.”
“Well, sir, there are two Indians there watching us.”
“No, my lad, there are no Indians there. Take the glass and look for yourself.”
Cyril snatched the glass, directed it to the steep, precipitous side of the gorge, and then uttered an ejaculation full of annoyance.
“They’re gone, sir, but I’m sure there were two men there.”
“Then if so, they must be close to the same spot now. I hope you are wrong, but of course you may be right. Let’s go on, and if they are there, we shall be sure to catch sight of them, for they must go forward or backward.”
“Would you go on?” said Cyril dubiously.
“At any cost, boy. We cannot go back to that awful chasm to pass another night. There, back with you, but keep your eyes on the position in which you saw the men.”
Cyril was silenced, and half ready to suppose that in his anxiety he had deceived himself; and in a few minutes he was back with the colonel, beside Perry and the mules, but without seeing anything in the direction he had pointed out.
“Ready?”
“Yes, sir, but my eyes are not quite so good as they were, sir, and I fancied I saw some one creeping along the side of the rock, up yonder to the right.”
“Left, John Manning,” cried Cyril, “and I saw it too.”
“You saw something on your left, sir? Then I am right, and my eyes are true. There’s Injuns watching us, sir, and if we don’t look out, we shall have arrows sticking in our skins.”