In running up the ladder to the loft the child had doubtless dislodged the rattlesnake which, upon slipping to the floor of the hut, had assumed an attitude of defense. The victim, flinging herself down between two rafters to escape, at once was in imminent danger of falling upon the angry snake.
The drop to the floor of the shack would not necessarily hurt the child, for the rafters were low. But a single injection of the poison of the serpent might be fatal.
These facts and conjectures had rushed into Nan Sherwood’s mind in a flood of appreciation. She understood it all.
As well, she realized that, if the child was to be saved, she must perform the act of rescue. Before she could summon help to the spot the child’s hold would slip and her tender body fall within striking distance of the snake.
Indeed, it seemed to Nan as though the little brown fingers were already slipping from the rough rafter. Her body stiffened as though she would leap forward to catch the child in her arms, as she fell.
But such a move might be fatal to herself, Nan knew. The serpent would change its tactics with lightning speed. Indeed, it sprang its rattle in warning again as though, with its beady, lidless eyes, it read Nan’s mind.
The seconds passed swiftly. The child did not scream again, but her pleading gaze rested upon Nan’s face. Nan was her only hope—her only possible chance of escape.
Nor did Nan fail her.
One glance the girl gave around the doorway. Then she stooped suddenly, seized upon a huge stone and hurled it at the upraised, darting crest of the snake.
Down upon the writhing coils the stone fell crushingly. The head of the snake was mashed, and the stone bounded across the floor.