Frances clambered up the hill, stopping now and again to look out over the water, the panorama becoming more beautiful as she climbed higher. It was difficult climbing too, for there were many loose rocks and she started several miniature land slides.
On the extreme top of the hill was a rocky plateau, in the center of which lay a shallow pool of stagnant water. As she drew near, two huge black crows cawed and flew from its edge.
“Ugh!” she said. “How very gruesome, and how silly for me to be talking out loud.” Then she heard a little sound as of a sharp, intaken breath, coming from behind a big, flat rock to the left of where she stood. She went quickly and leaned over the rock. At the sight of a man’s prostrate figure she involuntarily drew back.
“Dern the luck,” said the figure in a rather weak voice.
“If you would ask me I would say ‘bless the luck’,” contradicted Frances, coming forward to see what was the trouble.
At the sound of her voice, the man tried to raise himself on an elbow but, making a wry face, he gave it up.
“I am in luck now somebody has come, but I have been here since yesterday afternoon,” he said.
“What in the world happened to you?”
“Slipped on a rock. Think I must have broken my thigh bone; anyway I can’t move my left leg.”
“It would hurt terribly to move you without a stretcher, wouldn’t it?”