He continued to go up, until he was a good fifteen feet over Barringford’s head. He had still six feet to go, when he heard a slight sound from above.
“Must be the vines tearing away,” he told himself, after a pause. “Maybe they are not as strong as I thought they were.”
He glanced up, saw his dire peril, and let himself drop.—Page [77].
He waited and then went up an additional foot or two. The vines held, and he took another grip of them a little higher up. His head was now within a yard of the top of the cliff, which was covered with the vines and a stunted growth of bushes.
Suddenly, from out of the bushes, there appeared the head of an Indian, bedecked in war-paint and feathers. Then a long, bronzed arm stole forward, holding a tomahawk. The tomahawk was raised and a blow was aimed at Rodney’s head.
Had the blow fallen as intended, the young soldier’s skull must have been cleft in twain. He glanced up, saw his dire peril, and let himself drop. An instant later a shot rang out from below, and the Indian’s hand quivered and the hatchet slipped down among the vines and out of sight.
Rodney struck the rocks below heavily and rolled over. When he sat up he found Sam Barringford beside him, the smoke still rolling out of the frontiersman’s gun.
“Oh, Sam——” he began, and knew not what further to say.
“Press in clost to the wall,” answered the frontiersman, hastily, and began to reload his rifle with all speed. Rodney’s gun stood against the rocks, where he had left it on starting to mount the cliff.