And I'll not
worry a bit. Good-bye."
Elliot made his way up to the summit and ran along a footpath which
brought him to a bridge across the mountain stream just above the falls.
The trail zigzagged down the turbulent little river close to the bank.
Before he had specialized on the short distances Gordon had been a
cross-country runner. He was in fair condition and he covered the ground
fast.
About a mile below the falls he met two men. One of them was Colby
Macdonald. He carried a coil of rope over one shoulder. The big
Alaskan explained that he had not been able to get it out of his
head that perhaps the climbers who had waved at his party had been in
difficulties. So he had got a rope from the cabin of an old miner and
was on his way back to the falls.
The three climbed to the falls, crossed the bridge, and reached the top
of the cliff.
"You know the lay of the land down there, Mr. Elliot. We'll lower you,"
decided Macdonald, who took command as a matter of course.
Gordon presently stood beside Sheba on the little plateau. She had
quite recovered from the touch of hysteria that had attacked her courage.
The wind and the rain had whipped the color into her soft cheeks, had
disarranged a little the crinkly, blue-black hair, wet tendrils of which
nestled against her temples.
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