In the shocking moment of discovery Dexter found no time to wonder what malignant fate had brought the outlaw here at this unwelcome juncture. He merely grasped the fact that "Pink" Crill was kneeling on the cliff above, looking down at him. Instinctively he crowded himself into his niche, shrinking inwardly. It was a seventy-foot drop to the rocks below, and he knew at sight that this Crill was a man without scruple or mercy. The crevice offered some protection, but after crouching motionless for tense seconds, the corporal craned his head back and ventured another glance upward. The face had disappeared.
Dexter was positive that he had been seen, and was not misled by false hope. Crill had withdrawn, but he certainly would come back. Probably he was only hunting bowlders to roll over the cliff. Meanwhile, however, the victim had a slender chance of saving himself. It would be the part of sanity to scramble down with all haste from his unsafe roosting place. He might possibly reach the bottom before the murderer returned.
In the fractional second of his indecision, Dexter's thoughts were sharply recalled by a sob of distress, low and piteous, heard suddenly behind him. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he looked into Alison Rayne's horror-stricken eyes. She was staring full at Dexter, and apparently was unaware of the ominous presence above.
"I'm slipping!" she whispered with choking breath. "If you're coming—please—help—"
"Coming!" he said, curt and incisive. "Hold on, I tell you!"
His hand went up again and found the carbine sling. The buckle came open with a snap, the strap jerked apart and slipped over his shoulder; and the next second, as he jammed his body into the crevice and started to work his way upward, he heard the crash of his rifle striking on broken stones far below.
If by unforeseen good luck he ever reached the cliff top he still would have his pistol. But at present the holstered weapon was a useless appendage, much in the way. With an impatient yank and a twist, he drew his belt around so the pistol might bump against the small of his back, and not interfere with his movements. Then, with thighs and shoulders braced against the sides of the fissure, clinging mostly by force of adhesion, he wriggled and hitched himself up the slanting chute, as a chimney sweep goes up a flue.
In a moment he had gained an elevation level with the shelf where Alison Rayne still held on with the clutch of despair. Six feet more of the elbow-bruising ascent, and he was able to reach the lateral crack that led back across the sheer face of the precipice to the girl's ledge.
To his joy he found that the underlip of the crack sloped inward, affording a slight ridge for his finger grip. But fortune granted him no other concession. Beyond him stretched a bare rock wall, a smooth, ten-foot reach, without any cranny or projecting point that his toe might touch.
He paused only to measure his distance, and then securing his hold in the crack, he swung out against the cliff. For a moment he hung swaying, dangling over space, supporting his weight by his hands and upstretched arms. The brim of his Stetson pushed against the cliff, and he tossed his head with a movement of annoyance, and the hat sailed away behind him.