The billet struck Sparwick’s right arm and knocked his rifle to the ground. With a snarl of rage and pain, he stooped to recover it.
“You’ll pay dear fur that when I git hold of you,” he shouted.
This ruse allowed Jerry to gain a dozen feet, and gave him fresh hope and courage.
“Mebbe I can outrun him, after all,” he thought. “If there was only cover enough to dodge and hide!”
But a moment later the ridge suddenly narrowed, and just ahead lay a huge, towering bowlder, crowned with pine trees. It jutted up sheerly, and Jerry knew that he had no time to scale it. He turned and ran to the left side of the ridge. There were tall, tangled bushes in the way, but he forced recklessly through them.
Then came a moment of frightful despair! The treacherous screen ended on the brink of a chasm. To draw back now was impossible.
Jerry’s feet slipped over the edge. With a hoarse cry on his lips, he shot down—down into the misty, yawning depths of space.
Several minutes later Sparwick crept tremblingly to the verge of the precipice. With a white, scared face, he peeped over.
“Poor lad!” he muttered. “It’s the end of him—a straight fall of not less than a hundred feet. He must be smashed to a jelly. Well, dead men tell no tales. I reckon the fifteen thousand is safe. I’d better be makin’ tracks for the cabin.”
He turned away with a shudder.