The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four by Louis L’Amour Page A

the first time. Then he glanced back to where the survivors were gathered, obscured by the swirling snow. The wind was rising. It would be a bitter night and a miserable tomorrow. Rescue parties might be days in coming but, with luck, the group could survive.
    He balked at the door, and the thought that the girl must be dead by now flashed through his mind. Maybe, but probably not. He knew that was his fear of returning to the plane sneaking up on him. He shook his head and chuckled. The sound of it revived him, and he put a hand on each side of the plane door, a foot on the edge.
    He stepped inside the plane and moved, gently as possible, to the girl’s seat. As he bent to look at her, she opened her eyes and looked right into his.
    “Don’t move,” he said, “there has been an accident.”
    She looked at him very carefully, at his eyes, his face, and his hair. In the plane, the moonlight shone through the windows, bright between scudding clouds. “I know,” she said. “Who are you?”
    “It does not matter. Think of this. Several of the passengers were killed, but six have been removed and are safe. If you and I can get out, we will be safe, too, and we’re the last.”
    Her eyes were wide and gray. They bothered him, somehow. They reminded him of other eyes. “Where are we?”
    “On a very high mountain. It is very cold and the wind is blowing hard. We’re on the edge of a high cliff. When I pick you up, the plane may slip. It did with the last person I carried, but he was very heavy. So you must hold very still.”
    “Maybe I can walk. Let me try.”
    “No. If you stumbled or fell, the shock would start us moving. I must carry you.”
    “You’re very brave.”
    “No, I’m not. Right now I’m scared. My stomach feels empty and my mouth is dry. I’ll bet yours is, too, isn’t it?”
    “You’re risking your life for me.”
    “You’re a romantic child. And believe me, the risk is much less than you might suppose.”
    He had been on one knee, talking to her. Now he slid an arm beneath her legs and another around her body, under her arms. An arm slid trustfully around his neck and he got carefully to his feet. After Barclay’s weight, she seemed very light. He stood still, looking toward the door. It was seven steps, every step an increasing danger.
    She looked toward the door, too, then at him. “Isn’t it strange? I’m not afraid anymore.”
    “I wish I could say I wasn’t.”
    He took his first step, placing his foot down carefully, then, shifting his weight, he swung the other leg. Then the right and again the left. Nothing happened. He took a deep breath, looked at the black rectangle of the door, then took another step. As if moved by the added weight, the ship quivered slightly. The movement was only a tremor, but Dyea immediately stepped again, and then again.
    Under his feet the plane started to move, and he knew that this time it was going all the way. He lunged at the door and shoved the girl out into the snow. He saw her land, sprawling. The nose of the plane was sliding down while the tail held almost still, the body rotating. Fortunately, it was swinging in an arc opposite from where the girl had fallen. Then the whole plane slid in one section over the edge of the cliff. As it fell free, Dyea, with one agonized, fear-driven snap of his muscles, sprang upward and outward into the blackness and swirling snow.
    There was one awful instant when, hands spread high and wide, he seemed to be hanging in space. He hit a steep slope partially covered with snow. He slid, then felt his lower body going over…he clutched, grabbing a fingerhold just as he began to fall. His arms gave a frightful jerk but he held himself, swinging in black, swirling snow over a vast, cold emptiness.
    The moon emerged from under a cloud, and he started upward. He was no more than four feet below the edge, the cliff before him not as sheer as he’d thought. The brow sloped steeply back, and on the very edge was