Part 3 (1/2)
After that, his actions savored of a maniac's cunning rather than the desire of a sane man to save his own life. Slowly, with never a groan, he extracted both legs from beneath the pile of stones. The spurs were his chief difficulty. One was held so tightly that he had to tear his foot out by main force; but luckily it was the right foot, or he could not have done it. Something had to give way under the strain, and ultimately the spur was released by the yielding of a strap at a buckle.
The torture he suffered must have been intense; but he uttered no sound save an occasional sob of effort, when all the strength of hands and wrists were needed to move one or other of the chunks of granite without dislodging the grim monster he had chained.
At last he was free. He felt the injured limb, which was almost benumbed, and ascertained beyond doubt that it was fractured below the knee. But he was safe enough, even though the precarious structure of stones collapsed, and any other victim of like circ.u.mstances would have been content with that tremendous achievement. Not so John Darien Power.
The mere fact that he need now only lie still until a.s.sistance reached him seemed to lash him into a fresh panic of energy. After a hasty glance into the canyon, obviously to find out whether or not anyone was approaching, he began to throw pieces of debris into the fissure left bare by the fall. When he had exhausted the store within reach he crawled to a new supply, and piled stone upon stone until the rock wall was covered to a height of more than two feet. Even then he was not satisfied; but moved a second time, his apparent object, if any, being to give the scene of his accident the semblance of a stone slide.
Finally, he did the maddest thing of all, lowering himself down the cleft with a rapidity that was almost inconceivable in a man with a broken leg. On reaching the level of the trail he slipped and fell.
That drew a queer sort of subdued shriek from his parched throat; but, after a moment of white agony, he began to crawl in the direction of the ranch. He chose that way deliberately, because the slope was downhill, and not so rough as in the upper part of the gorge. With care, for he meant to avoid another slip, but never halting, he dragged his crippled body fully a hundred yards from the foot of the ledge. Then he crept into the shade, at a spot where the side of the Gulch rose sheer for twenty feet, turned over on his back, and lay quietly.
He had almost reached the end of his tether. His face was drawn, and disfigured with dirt and perspiration. His eyelids dropped involuntarily, as though to shut out a world which had suddenly become savagely hostile; but his lips moved in a wan grimace, a wry parody of the generous, warm-hearted smile that people had learned to a.s.sociate with Derry Power.
”My poor Nancy!” he murmured brokenly. ”My dear lost sweetheart! If the Fates have bought you from me, I was no party to the deal, and I'll exact the last cent on it--I swear that by your own sprig of white heather! Someone will pay, in blood and tears, or I'll know the reason why! Yes, someone will pay! Power versus Marten, with the devil as arbitrator! Marten has won the first round; but I'll take it to a higher court. I'll choke the life out of him yet--choke--the beast!”
Of course, Power was light-headed.
CHAPTER III
SHOWING HOW POWER ACQUIRED A LIMP.
If any sentient thought loomed vaguely through the haze of pain and exhaustion which enwrapped Power like a pall, it was that he would probably lie there a long time before help came; yet he had hardly uttered that half-delirious vow before he was aware of an animal snuffing cautiously around him, and the knowledge galvanized him into a species of activity. He turned on his right side, and raised himself on one hand, the fingers of which closed instinctively on a heavy stone as supplying a weapon of defense.
But his eyes rested only on a dog, a dapper fox-terrier, whose furtive curiosity changed instantly to alarm, as it retreated some distance, and barked excitedly. Then Power saw the animal's master, a stranger, or, at any rate, a newcomer, in the district, a man of about his own age, who rode a compactly-built pony with the careless ease of good horsemans.h.i.+p, and was dressed _de rigueur_, except for the broad-brimmed hat demanded by the Colorado sun.
Evidently the horseman was not surprised at finding someone lying in the Gulch.
”Hullo!” he cried. ”Had a spill?”
Power tried to speak; but the dust and grit in his throat rendered his words almost inaudible. Then the other understood that if, as he imagined, copious drafts of champagne had caused some unaccustomed head to reel, the outcome was rather more serious than a mere tumble. He urged the pony rapidly nearer, and dismounted, and a glance at Power's face dispelled his earlier notion.
”What's up?” he inquired in a sympathetic tone. ”Are you hurt?”
Power's second effort at ordered speech was more successful. ”Yes,” he said. ”My leg is broken.”
”Ah, that's too bad. Which leg?”
”The left.”
”Were you thrown?”
”No.”
The stranger noted the soiled condition of the injured man's clothing.
He saw that a spur had been torn off, and among the drying dirt on Power's face and hands were some more ominous streaks; since a man may not squirm in agony beneath a shower of jagged granite and escape some nasty abrasions of the skin.
”I see,” he said gently. ”You fell from up there somewhere,” and he looked at the cliff, ”tripped over that missing spur, I suppose. Well, what's to be done? Were you at the ranch? I didn't happen to come across you. Shall I take you there?”
”No, please--to Bison--to MacGonigal's store.”