“That certainly was some tumble,” he groaned to himself. “I suppose I can be thankful I wasn’t killed.”
Dave found himself rolling over and over down a rocky slope.—Page [74].
He had rolled a distance of fifty yards, and the top of the little cliff was six or eight feet above his head. From where he stood he could not see that portion of the trail where the encounter had occurred, and consequently he knew not what had become of Nick Jasniff.
“I hope he rolled down, too,” murmured Dave to himself. But after he had taken a good look around he concluded that Jasniff had remained up on the trail.
The only thing to do was to climb up to the trail and try to find out what had become of Jasniff and the horse.
“It would be just like Jasniff to take Sport and ride off with him,” thought Dave dismally. “What a fool I was not to give him a knock-out blow when I had him down on the rocks! If I had given him that I could have made him a prisoner before he had a chance to regain his senses. Now he’s got the best of it, and there is no telling what he’s up to.”
More anxious to know what had become of his horse than over Jasniff’s welfare, Dave moved around to one end of the cliff and then began to scramble up the rocks. This was by no means easy, and more than once he had to stop to catch his breath and nurse his hurt shoulder and his lame ankle. Up above him he could now see the trail, but neither Jasniff nor the horse was in sight.
At last Dave had the satisfaction of drawing himself up over the rocks bordering the edge of the trail, and here, feeling rather weak, he sat down to regain his strength. He listened intently, but scarcely a sound broke the silence of the mountains. Evidently Nick Jasniff had taken time by the forelock and made good his departure.
“If he took that horse, what am I to do?” mused Dave bitterly. “To foot it all the way to Orella, and especially with this lame ankle, is almost out of the question.”