Ed found that doing practicing bandaging on an obliging fellow scout was a very different thing from binding up the hot, wet wounds of this man, who groaned in agony when touched. Privately Ed suspected the man as having been shot for a poacher or wounded in some bootleg scuffle perhaps as he carried no rifle or hunting outfit, and Ed entertained no very good opinion of him. His opinion, however, did not effect the thoroughness with which he tried to do the job. He tore up what remained of his ragged shirt, bandaged the man’s head, and made an emergency sling to ease his arm. The man could not bear to be moved, so Ed simply made him as comfortable as he could with a soft pile of leaves and promised to bring a doctor. The man’s gruffness had melted and he said, “You’se is a good little kid, and I won’t forget it. Beat it along now and hurry back.”
Ed then redoubled his speed down the mountainside in vain endeavor to make up for lost time. Trudging on and on, refusing to stop for sleep or rest, Ed walked all night long.
Dawn was just tinging the eastern mountain rims when Buck Whitley, an early bird, beheld a weird sight approaching the main cabin at Hermitage Rest. A small boy in undershirt and torn trousers stumbled wearily up the steps and collapsed.
CHAPTER XXXIX
WESTY’S DESCENT
Westy Martin lost no time in starting down the face of the ravine toward his friend. The cliff he descended was so precipitous that the problem of reaching the bottom alive absorbed all his attention and he had no time to worry much over what condition he might find Warde in. Occasionally, as he hung by his fingers from one rock and ventured to drop to a shelf below, he wondered how anything could be left of Warde at all. Sometimes the loose stones and dirt gave way under his feet and sent him tumbling until he could clutch a bush and hold on, only to find his hands and knees skinned raw. Pausing to pant and gain his balance, Westy would try not to wonder whether the vultures would leave anything of Warde for him to find. It was lucky for Westy that the sunlight, reflected against these steep rocks which directly faced the sunset, lit up the ravine long after Ed, on the opposite side of the mountain, was left in darkness. For Westy, in darkness, would have been in peril indeed, since the task he was attempting seemed to him very like those movie scenes of a Human Fly crawling down the face of a skyscraper! Had this ravine been an Alpine pass traversed by mountain-climbing tourists, each tourist would have been roped to another and guides would have controlled these safety lines. Such a descent Westy was daring all alone. He came at last to a narrow and abrupt slide between two long walls of rock. Here there were few bushes to hold back by and the only thing to do, Westy decided, was to sit down and slide. To climb back and hunt another way down was impossible. So down he sat and slid cautiously, but try as he might to brake his pace with his feet, he shot faster and faster until he had every fear that he would shoot clean off the mountainside and land below, food for vultures too. Vainly he spread his feet and clutched at the rocks with his hands until his fingers bled. He could not stop himself, but, gathering momentum, he shot down the mountain slide faster than before. Ahead of him the rocks narrowed so that while at first he had a gleam of hope that they would stop his fall, on tumbling nearer he felt sure that to dash against them at his present speed would only dash out his brains and at best break all his ribs. With never a thought that he might shoot over an edge into eternity, Westy quickly lay flat on his back and in a spatter of pebbles and cloud of dust shot safely between the narrow walls of rock just skinning both shoulders. He found himself riding on a miniature landslide coasting quickly toward the edge of overhanging rock and his heart leapt to his throat as he realized he might as well fall off a twelve-story fire-escape to pavements below, as hope to survive the dashing to pieces which he now faced. In the flash of time that it took for the falling dirt to shoot him out on this ledge, he had one sickening moment when he wished he had never heard of scouting, and it must be confessed he offered up a quick prayer for help. Then the miracle happened, as if in answer to this prayer. He stopped as suddenly as he had started. The seat of his breeches had caught on the branches of a small scrub pine that thrust out from between rocks in the path of his descent, and this had checked his fall. For a moment Westy hardly dared draw breath for fear brush or breeches give way. Then, securing a grip on the friendly little pine and assuring himself that it was rooted sturdily, Westy cautiously freed himself and lay down to study the way ahead. It was less steep below, and, lowering himself down inch by inch, Westy was soon on a safe way to the bottom. His shirt was scraped off from neck to belt, including considerable skin, the seat of his trousers could never be the same again, but save for such battle scars, Westy, to his surprise and thankfulness, was not so much the worse for all the hard wear and tear he had undergone “skidding down the face of the Woolworth Tower,” as Ed would have said. Westy now faced the task of finding Warde. This was made only too easy by the sight of vultures ahead. Furious at these loathsome scavengers Westy ran headlong, yelling to frighten them away. The sight ahead made him pause and feel too faint to move.
Two giant birds were tearing at the scout figure with their hideous curved beaks. Westy was near enough to see their powerful crooked claws with which they helped in tearing his friend’s khaki suit. The bird’s ugly naked necks twisted to and fro in their bloody task. A great smear of red discolored the tunic. At Westy’s approach the huge birds flapped roughly away on ragged wings that made a great creaking and rustling and left behind the smell of carrion.
Westy could never tell how he summoned courage to approach that lump of blood and khaki. But when he finally found himself standing by it he could not believe his eyes. This was not Warde he was gazing at, but a mere dummy stuffed with sticks and leaves and baited with some meat and old dead fish! It was only a scarecrow that had fallen over the cliff!
Bewildered by this unbelievable hoax Westy stood spellbound. At this moment a great scrambling and shouting followed by hearty laughter broke upon him and Mr. Wilde, followed by Billy, the camera man, came out of the woods opposite, convulsed with loud guffaws.
“Well, young one, if I ever called you a little Lord Fauntleroy I take it all back now,” roared Mr. Wilde. “You’re the original Douglas Fairbanks and a true screen star. You’ve made this film a howling success.” Whereupon he doubled up with laughter which cramped him so violently that for a time he could not speak.
“Oh, laugh! laugh!” urged Billy, ironically, rubbing at his neck. “It’s awful funny! Oh, yes! A mere incident like breaking my only neck in the cause is nothing! Oh, no! Laugh! Laugh by all means!”