“Who?” gasped Dick. “Betty Hunt? Here? Here? At Canyon Pass?”
“My sister,” Hunt said hoarsely. “Didn’t you see her and Nell Blossom again as you rode down?”
“Your sister?” repeated the startled gambler. “Betty Hunt—your sister?”
He fell back and closed his eyes. Hurley started for the front door.
“No time to lose, boys,” he cried. “Come on! Betty and Nell are somewhere up there along that path. No more delay.”
He had already knotted one end of the rope around his waist. Hunt followed his example, leaving six feet or more of slack between them. The other men who were going with them quickly fastened themselves in rotation. They knotted neckerchiefs or mufflers across their faces. Nobbs opened the door for them, and the file went out into the storm.
The roar of the storm as the men came out upon the open bank of the East Fork made the human voice quite inaudible. Nor could they communicate by signs, for only the dim outlines of the man before him could be seen by the man behind. A tug of the rope was the only signal understood between the searchers.
The driven hail churned the surface of the river to a livid foam. The reflection of this sheet of ruffled water lent them more light than the sun itself. The storm beat upon the string of men with a savageness that appalled Hunt, who had never experienced nature in so bitter a mood.
But what these men of Canyon Pass could do, the parson would not shrink from. And were not the two beings he loved most in this world—Nell Blossom and his sister Betty—in desperate peril somewhere on the other side of the wind-lashed stream?
The water was all of knee-depth over the bar, but Joe waded in without hesitation. They were none of them shod properly for the wading of the stream; but their personal discomfort—or, indeed, their personal peril in any way—did not enter into their consideration in this emergency. Two girls were somewhere up there among the rocks, harassed by the storm and in danger of their lives. The men’s job was to get them.