The long arm of the Mounted

by James French Dorrance

The extent of the drop to the third ledge might have halted him had he been permitted any choice in the matter, but, as he stood estimating the distance, decision was taken out of his hands. The shelf edge crumbled beneath his feet. Before he could realize what had happened, he was painfully trying to arise from another flat some thirty feet below.

Throwing off the shock of the impact, satisfying himself that no bones were broken, he gained his feet and stared about. The tops of Douglas firs, growing straight from the normal forest level, were on a line with the rock shelf upon which he stood, indicating that a really formidable precipice had been reached, one of a height too problematical for the most foolhardy jumper. Hope that the man in the checkerboard flannel must be somewhere on the ledge started Childress' search without delay.

But again disappointment was his portion. Although there could be no doubt that the fugitive had landed there, as attested by the disturbed shale, no sign of him could be found upon the ledge—one of less extent than the others and, with the exception of a lone hemlock, absolutely devoid of cover. In some way the other must have made this last leap.

Guarding against a second precipitation without consent, Childress flattened himself upon the rock and crawled to the edge. Peering over, his eyes soon solved the mystery of the disappearance.

Upon the rocks full fifty feet below lay a ladder improvised by the nailing of slats upon a slender cut-tree. By means of this the unknown doubtless had descended with ease and safety; then shut off further pursuit by throwing down the cliff's scaling device.

Although the sergeant could see no one below, his deductions were corroborated by a burst of laughter—raucous in its defiance, almost demoniacal—which cut the air upward from the forest cover. Having met defeat before, Childress had thought himself schooled to it, but this taunt was a heavy drain upon his sincerity. There seemed, however, no counter irritant. The height was too great for another jump; the sheer wall offered no hold for fingers and toes by which he might lower himself. Having done his best, he would have to give up the chase, ascend the series of ledges, and get back to his horse by way of the deer run. Just possibly he could discover where the culprit—of whose guilt he no longer had any doubt—had thrown the down-to-mud-line hide and have that much to carry back to Flame Gallegher.

This decided he drew back from the brink, regained his feet, and looked about for the easiest start. It was several minutes before he realized that he was caught in a trap. Although shrubs to furnish climbing holds had grown on the ledges higher up, this one, which he first must scale, was as bald as an eagle. Not until he had searched the flinty surface at close range for crevices and projections and tried out to futility the cutting of steps with his ax, did he appreciate his recent temerity.

The more he studied the situation, the more serious it looked. He would not be missed at the Gallegher Ranch. Even if Flame cared to mention their chance meeting and his aid with the bogged-down cow, she doubtless would consider his failure to return as proof that the general suspicion against him was well founded. Silver, he believed, would be able to find his way back to the Open A, but might be hours doing it. The arrival of the horse, riderless, would alarm Mahaffy, but how would the constable know where to look for his missing chief?

Scarcely could he reassure himself by thinking that the human fox, in the timber below, would do anything in the way of directing a rescue party. Doubtless, he soon would be on his way to recover his cayuse and the discarded loot. Even Silver might be in danger, although the sergeant had hope that the sagacious animal would effectively resist being taken in by a stranger.

Childress measured with his eyes the distance to the nearest treetop, calculating the chance of a leap into its branches and the uncertainty of being able to hold on. This he decided was too dubious for attempt, except as a last resort, driven by hunger and thirst. The lone hemlock next became the object of his conjecture, but proved too short by several feet to give access to the ledge above. He expended three shots from his revolver in broadcasting for help, but not so much in hope of answer as that he should leave nothing undone.