“Bush is givin’ ’way,” was the answer. “I can feel it pullin’ out. One thing I want you should do for me, friend.”
“What’s that?”
“Find out who that cimiroon was that was drivin’ that gas cart; then scalp him, and say you done it for James Montague Fortune, which is me. Adios, pard. That blamed bush can’t stand the strain much longer.”
“Oh, take a brace, can’t you?” Clancy answered sharply. “If you’ve got to drop anyhow, you might as well do it while trying to save yourself. Here, look!”
With his left arm around a bowlder at the cliff’s edge, Clancy, flat on the ground, was reaching his right hand downward.
“See if you can’t get hold of my hand,” he went on. “Do that, Fortune, and I’ll pull you up. Come on, now. You can make it if you try.”
“You’re the most persistenest person I ever seen!” grumbled James Montague Fortune. “You can’t even let a feller fall down a cliff in peace! Well, if you’re set on it, I’ll make a stagger to get up, but I’m a-tellin’ you it’s a powerful small piece o’ standin’ ground I got, and it tips the wrong way and is smooth, like it was greased. Here’s where I caper. Reckon I might as well shoot off into the dizzy void as to go rollin’ down the face of them rocks with a measly handful of chaparral.”
Slowly, and while Clancy held his breath and waited, Fortune began twisting himself into a sitting posture. The bush gave a sudden heave, and its top bent until it was sticking straight out at right angles to the cliff wall. Clancy whooped in an agony of fear. The other looked up at him calmly.
“Told you!” he called. “Couldn’t even hang a persimmum on that clump o’ brush without givin’ it the wiggle-waggles, and here I’m tryin’ to balance a hundred and forty pounds on it. Don’t take no head for ’rithmatec to figger out what’s goin’ to happen. I’m givin’ myself a minute and a half. How much do you give me?”
“I’d like to give you a punch,” howled Clancy, “for wasting time when you haven’t an instant to spare! Get up! Reach for my hand! Quick!”