The young man was off like a shot, but he never went as far as the spot where the ponies had been secured. On his way he met Bart Angell. The big backwoodsman had the reatas in his hand.
“I reckoned as how they’d shore be needed,” he said to Henson, “an’ so I jest naterally made a bee line fer ther ponies without axin’ Cody’s permission.”
When Henson and Angell reached the cove Myra Wilton had succeeded in gettin’ her hands on the rocky projection, and Wild Bill was standing on the narrow shelf above.
“Hike up here with those reatas,” Wild Bill shouted.
“I’ll take them,” said Carl Henson quickly. “I can make better time than you, Mr. Angell.”
Buffalo Bill would not leave his position under the girl. She might fall at any moment. If she did, it might be death for him and her, for there was a sheer drop of nearly fifty feet.
Bart Angell regarded the king of scouts gravely. Soon he was standing behind his comrade. “Go away, Bart,” commanded Buffalo Bill. “One is enough.”
“Maybe not, son,” was the firm reply. “If she comes, I’ll shore yank you back ther minute she strikes your arms. Thataway we’ll save some of ther pieces.”
The king of scouts tried to smile, but could not. Above him the girl was swaying about the projection that was holding her.
“I can’t hold on much longer,” she said faintly, and her voice just reached the ears of the king of scouts. “And if I let go with my hands I must fall, for the belt has given way.”