“Yo’re the gamest woman I ever met, Jane Kelton. And when we clear Blaze Nolan, I’m goin’ to bring him up to this place and show him the kind of a woman he’s got.”
The knees stiffened a little.
“Up,” said Cultus softly. “Don’t try to hurry, and remember I’m right below yuh.”
“Thank you, Cultus Collins.”
“Yo’re welcome, Miss Cliff Dweller.”
Cultus watched her feet and tried to keep as close to her as possible. His legs ached from the strain of gripping, gripping all the time, his body tensed to take the shock, in case she slipped. He stole a look down the shaft and was appalled at the distance they had already climbed.
The niches were not over eighteen inches apart on each side. Some of them were six inches deep, which afforded a good footing, while others were barely deep enough for their toes to take a grip.
Lift and brace, lift and brace, feet lifting cautiously from one niche, groping, groping for the next niche; sand drifting down, elbows bleeding from scraping along the rough sandstone walls. Would the top never come? Her knees were trembling, toes bleeding through her worn stockings.
Then Jane stopped.
“Tired?” whispered Cultus.