At a run, he and the others started for the pass.
The trail, such as it was, wound in a gradual climb. Jack and Ken tried the steeper, direct route. Even so, they were less than a third of the way up to the cliff when they heard a hoarse, frightened shout.
Joe Hansart, despite his age, had overpowered his adversary. Inch by inch, he crowded him to the edge of the precipice. Walz rocked back and forth on the ledge, fighting for his life. Beneath him yawned the chasm.
The end of that desperate struggle was inevitable.
Walz’ boot went over the slanting rock. He tried wildly to regain a foothold, but could not. As he fell, he held fast to the old man, pulling him along.
Locked in each other’s arms, the two men fell to a ledge fifteen or twenty feet below. There they struck bushes which in part broke their fall. Then over and over they rolled, to the bottom of the long slope.
“What an end!” Ken gasped, shuddering.
Peering over the cliff, Jack saw Walz move one of his hands. It revived his hope that the motel owner at least might have survived the long drop.
“Quick!” he cried. “A rope!”
Ken went as fast as he could back to the cabin. Without waiting, Jack scrambled down the steep slope.