to look out below, I tumbled them over. For almost an hour I worked at it.
The Apaches had taken no action against us, and that gave me hope. None of them had taken off to ride around and get up above us, and as they knew the country, maybe they knew it was miles before there was a way out of that barranca.
Down below me occasional shots sounded, and the Apaches fired a time or two. The way I was fixed they couldn't see me, nor what I was doing. They knew better than anybody that there was no help I could can on, and no matter what I did they'd have my scalp sooner or later. But I planned to make them work for it. If they wanted my hair they'd have to get it the hard way.
So I kept on at the rock, and unloaded a good many chunks of it.
A long, thin slab formed one side of the crack I was digging into. It was all of six or eight feet long, and must have weighed a ton or more, but as I dug down around it I could see it was a free slab, broken clean off the main rock.
There were a few loose rocks at the base, and I climbed down and pulled them free. I had me an idea now, and I didn't figure to give up on it. In a time and place like that, you gamble on any wild-haired chance. We were boxed in, the Apaches were down below, and they were willing to wait. We had water enough for a while, and ammunition enough for quite a fight, but that wasn't going to get us out of here.
The sun beat down on my back and my shirt was wet with sweat, but I'd never done anything much in my life but work hard, and didn't know any different. Besides, we Sacketts were a right stubborn folk. We just didn't have much give-up in us.
We always kept plugging away, and that's what I was doing this time.
Finally, when I'd done what I could in the hole, I climbed up and did what I'd been figuring on. I got into the top of that crack, put my back against one side, and my feet against the other, which bowed up my knees. Then with my hands braced against the rock behind me, I began to push.
The sweat broke out on my face and rolled down me in streams. Nothing happened -- nothing at all. I rested a mite and then I tried again. It was on the third try that I felt her give a mite. So I buckled down and tried still another time, and she gave a bit more.
Rocks and gravel trickled down into the hollow below, and then Battles climbed up there to help.
He studied the layout and shook his head. 'I don't believe it. Even if you can do it, what then?'
'I figure our number's up,' I said. 'Not that I don't figure to make them earn it with blood, but that girl now -- she's got to have a running chance. She's got to get out, and those children.'
He squatted on his heels and looked at me. 'So?'
'That little buckskin, now. That's a mountain horse, a mountain mustang, and I figure she could climb a tree if need be. The girl's horse is another. Both of them are small, both are quick and smart. I think we might, if we can make any sort of a way to, get the girl and those youngsters out of here. Might even be a chance for us.'
He studied the layout again. If that slab toppled over, it would leave a steep slide of gravel and broken rock. With a couple of husky men pulling and a horse scrambling, it might work. With one horse on top and a rope around the pommel, we might get another out.
Battles got down into the crack and scraped some good footing for himself, and then put his shoulder against the slab. Together we pushed, we strained. Of a sudden she gave. I slid lower to get a better purchase, and we tried it again.
She tilted a bit, then stuck. Try as we might, we couldn't push that slab any further.
We backed off and studied the situation, and John J. kept looking at that crack.
It was a whole lot wider than it had been, and slanted steeply down to the gravel slope below.
He looked at the crack, and then he looked at me again. 'Shall we try it?' he asked.
Well, now. It was almighty steep, but it was all we had. I'd seen wild horses scramble up some steep slopes, but none as bad as this -- but with a little help ...
We went back down into the hollow below where the others waited, and I took a long pull at a canteen. When I looked up to where we'd been it fairly turned my stomach. What we needed was a set of wings.
I saw that they had rigged a little shade for Rocca -- a poncho over a couple of rocks, propped up with a stick. I went over and squatted down beside him. 'I'm hit pretty hard, amigo,' he said.
'You'll make it.'
He looked up to the rock where I'd been. 'What you got in mind?'
'That's the only way out for the two little horses, the girl and the youngsters.
That girl's got savvy. Get them out of here, and she's a good bet to make the border.'
'I keep thinkin' of that ranch back yonder,' Rocca said, 'of those trees, an' the grass.'
'It was quite a place.'
'If a man had to die, that would be the best he'd be likely to find. I figure heaven must be like that. Not that I'm likely to make it.' He looked at me.
'When you going to try it?'
'It's coming on for evenin'. I think we'll try then.'
He closed his eyes. 'Wish I could help.'
Dorset came over and I laid it out for her. We were going to try to get them out, and she was to light a shuck for the border, hiding out by day, riding in the evening or early morning. But she already knew what she needed to do.
She didn't ask any foolish questions, either. She knew what was likely to happen here, and she knew what we needed was a miracle.
'When you get back,' I told her, 'you might write a letter to Tyrel Sackett, up in Mora. You tell him about it. Tell him about Laura, too -- how she sent me down here on a wild-goose chase.'
'I'll do that,' Dorset said quietly. 'When it comes to that, I may go to see her myself.'
'Leave her be. She's poison.' It was no trouble for Dorset, Harry Brook, and the other youngsters to get to the top. Children are good at scrambling in rough places, and they took it as a lark. While Battles stood guard after, it was up to Spanish and me to get the horses up.
The little buckskin was quick and nimble. She climbed the gravel slope with me leading on the bridle, and though she went to her knees once, she made it. But when I looked up at that crack in the rock, I had my doubts.
Knowing the route, I went ahead, leading the buckskin. Spanish came along behind, but when I climbed into the crack the mustang pulled back and just wasn't having any part of it.
Spanish, he was right behind her, and he took off his sombrero and hit her a lick across the behind. She was almighty startled and gave a big jump, and before she knew what had happened she had her front feet on the crack and her hind feet scrambling for a grip on the slope.
Me, I tugged at the bridle. Spanish hit her another lick with his hat and she scrambled into the crack. There we held up for a mite, to catch our wind.
It was the cool of evening now, with the sky still pale blue in the far-off place where the sun had gone down, but overhead there were a few stars. Sitting back there on a rock, holding the bridle, I took long, deep breaths of that cool air.
All of a sudden the mare decided she wasn't too almighty comfortable standing spread out on the steep side of a hill, so of her own notion she scrambled a few steps higher, then stopped, and we let her be. It was still a far piece to the top.
After we'd all caught our breath we started on, and it was a struggle. But little by little we scrambled up until at last we got on top. By that time it was full dark and we still had the other horse to bring up.
Battles was down there alone, or as good as. Rocca was in no shape to lend a hand, and might be asleep. The Apaches didn't attack at night as a rule, for they had the notion that if a man was killed in the darkness his soul would wander forever in darkness. But if they did try coming up that slope in the dark, Battles could never hold them.
Leaving Dorset with the mare and the youngsters, Spanish and me made our way back into the basin. By the time we reached the bottom we were so almighty tired we were staggering, and we just naturally caved in. John J. reported no movement as far as he knew of. Rocca was sleeping. He had lost a lot of blood, and we had no way of treating a wound. Up on the mesa we might find one of the herbs the Indians used, but down here there was nothing.
