CHAPTER IX.
A CLIMB FOR LIFE.
Jack strolled along at the foot of the cliffs, anxiously scanning every inch of them in the hope of spying some place that afforded an opportunity to climb upward. The cliffs varied in height from two hundred to three, and even four hundred feet. Great beetling crags of gray stone, too steep to afford roothold to more than a few scanty shrubs, filled him with oppression and gloom.
The boy felt this disheartening influence as he made his way along the edges of the valley. From time to time he sighted game—deer, rabbits and a good many quail; but as he had not brought their solitary firearm along he did not pay much attention to the animals.
At last he halted at the foot of a cliff that was less precipitous than the others. It had, in fact, a slight slope to it, and was more closely grown with bushes and small trees which might be grasped by any one attempting to climb it.
Jack had his knife with him, a heavy–bladed, business–like bit of cutlery of finely tempered steel, but strong and thick withal. He drew it out, opened the blade and began hacking at the cliff’s face. It was of a soft sort of stone, and he could easily cut depressions in it.
“Good,” murmured the boy, “I actually believe that I may be able to scale this cliff, although it may take a long time.”
He gauged its height carefully and estimated that from the floor of the valley to the summit of the precipice it must be fully three hundred feet.