Gonch laughed a loud bitter laugh. The boy carried no ax and he was at a disadvantage, attacking from below. The Muskman seized a stone from the wall behind him and raised it above his head in both hands. There he stood howling derision at his pursuer.
Kutnar heard but he only climbed the faster. His was a lithe active body. In his brain lurked the inborn gift of clear-headedness and sure-footedness working in perfect harmony. But never had his climbing powers been subjected to so severe a test. In places the wall, for rods at a time appeared so smooth and unbroken that it seemed impossible for a human being to adhere to it; but Kutnar not only did adhere but continued upward at an astonishing rate. His toes and fingers found every minute wrinkle and crevice. His legs were the sustaining members, his shoulders the windlass, his arms the tackle of a self-propelling derrick lifting itself in mid-air. Kutnar was expending his energy at a lavish rate. He might have rested temporarily on the occasional rock-shelves that marked his route. His enemy was resting and he could have done likewise. In a saner moment he would have so chosen but now he was insane; a maniac bearing a death message to the man whose perfidy had destroyed the one he loved best. The human derrick was strained almost to the breaking point and still it continued to propel itself skyward. Not until Kutnar reached an unusually deep shelf which gave him more than standing room, did he pause even for a moment; then he halted and looked up. The Muskman stood waiting above him. Kutnar could see his open red mouth and white teeth. Gonch’s face wore an expression of cruel eagerness such as a panther wears when about to spring from the tree branches upon a fawn passing beneath. His back was set against the wall, both hands raised high above his head. He was preparing to hurl the stone.
Kutnar braced his legs, secured a firm foothold and whirled his sling. Gonch trembled. He could almost feel the pebble striking his skull with deadly precision. He faltered, tossed the stone wildly and fled in a panic up the wall behind him. The boy dodged the stone as it fell but now the Muskman was beyond effective throwing range and so Kutnar ceased whirling his sling and followed after. “The traitor must die,” repeated itself over and over in his mind and drove out all thought of himself, a stripling pitted against a full-grown man. His breath came in gasps, for what with the struggle below and his exhausting climb, the limit of his endurance was nearly reached. There came over him the fear that Gonch might escape after all and so he strove desperately, forcing his shaking legs to carry him on.
Gonch was comparatively fresh and perhaps it was just as well for the boy that he had abandoned all thought of fight. The Muskman had become obsessed with fear of the magic sling whose deadly accuracy he had become familiar with through long experience. Kutnar’s legs would no longer aid him in that heart-breaking ascent. The sling launched its bolt but in his anxiety, he missed his aim. Gonch was struggling up the slippery rock when he heard the stone whizz close by his head and click against the wall. The sounds spurred him on but in his over-eagerness he slipped and dropped back several feet. This slip terrified him.
Kutnar felt in his pouch and drew forth another pebble—the last. He had but one chance left. He reloaded his weapon but he neither whirled nor threw at his enemy now moving slowly but surely to safety. He was waiting until his heart would ease its pounding and his muscles could be brought under control for the final cast.
Gonch had recovered himself and was making progress. No second missile had followed the first to shake his nerves. Desperation gave him courage for the supreme effort required. His hands were raised to within a few yards of the crowning pinnacles of the Scarp. Once ahold of them he could drag himself to the top—and safety.
Kutnar saw. His heart had ceased palpitating. He no longer trembled. His body was as cold as ice. “That man must die,” he said for the last time. The thong hissed. Every ounce of strength in the guiding muscles followed the stone in its flight and sent it whizzing to the mark.
Gonch doubled up. His feet jerked convulsively as the death-messenger crashed into his ribs. His hands had already found anchorage. He might have pulled himself to the top, had not the sling-stone bid him halt. His lower limbs half-paralyzed, dabbed feebly against the smooth wall in a vain effort to relieve the weight of his body, thrown suddenly upon his arms. Once, twice, thrice, his feet sought support, then his muscles relaxed, his body straightened out and he hung suspended in mid-air.
Beneath him, his destroyer watched and waited, cold and implacable as an avenging Fate. The Muskman yet clung to the coping fluttering like a wounded bird. Slowly his head fell back and turned so that he could see over his right shoulder. His face blanched, his eyes started from their sockets at sight of the vast emptiness beneath him. Gradually his grip relaxed. He made a last effort for one more moment of sweet life, then with a despairing screech, down he fell. His body shot along the face of the Scarp until it encountered a rugged projection which sent it bounding clear of the rock-wall. Down, down it fell, whirling in space, finally crashing to its last resting place at the base of the Scarp. The traitor had come into his own at last and his body lay amid those of his comrades who now shared their lot with the true author of their destruction.