Along the edge of the gorge the two men strode, searching carefully for an out-jutting spur of rock upon the opposite side.
For a time their efforts were unrewarded, and Seymour began to grow impatient. Every instant was of priceless value; each moment the odds against their being able to carry out their desperate plan of rescue increased.
Then suddenly they came in sight of a crag which appeared as though it had been made for the purpose.
Whirling his roughly made lasso above his head, the Yankee made a cast.
But the noose fell short, and the rope swished downward into the gorge.
“Better luck next time,” Silas muttered, as he recoiled it.
Once more he threw the noose, and this time fortune attended his efforts. The rope settled over the rocky spur, and was at once pulled taut.
“I guess we’ll have to risk the rock cuttin’ the hide,” the Yankee said, as he securely fastened his end of the rope to an adjacent boulder.
Creeping to the verge, he took a firm grip of the hide with both hands, and lowered himself over into the gorge.
The frail rope creaked ominously beneath his weight, as, hand over hand, he commenced to drag himself across that yawning gulf.