the Mountain Valley War (1978) by Louis - Kilkenny 03 L'amour Page A
Authors: Louis - Kilkenny 03 L'amour
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glanced down. Fear tore at his guts. He clung for a moment, thinking desperately. He had underestimated the distance, for looking down from above, it was not easy to judge, and he was almost to the end of his rope, with a good forty feet to go, over jagged rocks, then the talus slope of smaller broken slabs.
If he could swing over to that cedar ... It was a good, strong-looking tree, not more than four feet tall but almost twice that across, with thick, strong branches. Such a tree might be several hundred years old, for they had a fantastic ability to survive. Below it, there were several other trees, the nearest a good ten feet lower down.
Yet, if he could get over there, get his fingers in those cracks, he might make his way to the bottom. The distance to the head of the slope was about the height of a four-story building.
If he could start himself swinging, and at the farthest point of his swing cut the rope, he had a good chance of landing in that cedar.
And a better chance of missing and breaking his fool neck.
He pushed against the rock, tried to get himself swinging across the face of it. A push here, another there, and he was swinging like a pendulum. With his free hand he got out his knife. It was a good blade, and razor sharp.
Could he cut through in one slice? That knife would cut through anything, but...
He swung wider and wider, a great human pendulum against the face of the rock. The cedar was there; then he was away from it. It was a good rawhide riata, and he hated to sacrifice it. He let the swing reach its full distance, and when he neared a projecting rock, he shoved hard with his feet; the swing of the rope carried him farther over each time^ yet scarcely far enough.
Could he cut through the rawhide with one slash? The answer was simple. He had to. Again he reached the far end of the swing. With feet and hands he shoved off hard from the rock; then his body swept out in a long swing over the breathtaking depth below. There was an instant of rushing air; then the cedar was there, just below him and ahead. Raising his left arm, he saw the cedar there and cut down and across with a sweeping slash.
He felt himself falling, and then he was thrown rather than fell into the cedar. He hit the tree all doubled up, and the short, stiff branches ripped at his clothes like stabbing knives. He fell through the outer branches and hit the second tree well below. For an instant the branches seemed to hold him, and then he slipped through and fell again. He hit a bunch of brush and was dropped off the edge of it to the slope. He hit the sand, rolled a few times, and lay still.
After a long, long minute he pulled himself together. He glanced up and could see his rope dangling there, so far above him that he could not believe it. Gingerly he felt of arms and legs to see if all was intact. Aside from a few minor bruises, contusions, and scrapes, he seemed all right.
Now he was down. How he was to get back to his horse and rifle was another thing.
He turned and began to walk.
Chapter 10
Lance Kilkenny stood on a dusty desert floor littered with slabs of rock obviously fallen from the cliff above. He stood in a dry water course, or on the edge of it, along which water actually ran only during or after rains. Yet the first thing he saw other than that was immediately reassuring. It was an ancient Indian petro-glyph.
It was on the face of the cliff thirty yards away, but clearly visible, although the colors had undoubtedly faded. It had been painstakingly pecked out of the rock, as he could see as he walked closer, and then tinted--or so it appeared.
Indians, at least, had been here.
To the west, vision was obscured by dust; it was a fine dust set swirling by the least wind. He knew nothing of what lay out there except that beyond a part of it lay Blazer. The first thing was to find that broken wagon.
His guns, which had their rawhide thongs over them, had stayed with him. His knife was lost. Or was it?
If he could swing over to that cedar ... It was a good, strong-looking tree, not more than four feet tall but almost twice that across, with thick, strong branches. Such a tree might be several hundred years old, for they had a fantastic ability to survive. Below it, there were several other trees, the nearest a good ten feet lower down.
Yet, if he could get over there, get his fingers in those cracks, he might make his way to the bottom. The distance to the head of the slope was about the height of a four-story building.
If he could start himself swinging, and at the farthest point of his swing cut the rope, he had a good chance of landing in that cedar.
And a better chance of missing and breaking his fool neck.
He pushed against the rock, tried to get himself swinging across the face of it. A push here, another there, and he was swinging like a pendulum. With his free hand he got out his knife. It was a good blade, and razor sharp.
Could he cut through in one slice? That knife would cut through anything, but...
He swung wider and wider, a great human pendulum against the face of the rock. The cedar was there; then he was away from it. It was a good rawhide riata, and he hated to sacrifice it. He let the swing reach its full distance, and when he neared a projecting rock, he shoved hard with his feet; the swing of the rope carried him farther over each time^ yet scarcely far enough.
Could he cut through the rawhide with one slash? The answer was simple. He had to. Again he reached the far end of the swing. With feet and hands he shoved off hard from the rock; then his body swept out in a long swing over the breathtaking depth below. There was an instant of rushing air; then the cedar was there, just below him and ahead. Raising his left arm, he saw the cedar there and cut down and across with a sweeping slash.
He felt himself falling, and then he was thrown rather than fell into the cedar. He hit the tree all doubled up, and the short, stiff branches ripped at his clothes like stabbing knives. He fell through the outer branches and hit the second tree well below. For an instant the branches seemed to hold him, and then he slipped through and fell again. He hit a bunch of brush and was dropped off the edge of it to the slope. He hit the sand, rolled a few times, and lay still.
After a long, long minute he pulled himself together. He glanced up and could see his rope dangling there, so far above him that he could not believe it. Gingerly he felt of arms and legs to see if all was intact. Aside from a few minor bruises, contusions, and scrapes, he seemed all right.
Now he was down. How he was to get back to his horse and rifle was another thing.
He turned and began to walk.
Chapter 10
Lance Kilkenny stood on a dusty desert floor littered with slabs of rock obviously fallen from the cliff above. He stood in a dry water course, or on the edge of it, along which water actually ran only during or after rains. Yet the first thing he saw other than that was immediately reassuring. It was an ancient Indian petro-glyph.
It was on the face of the cliff thirty yards away, but clearly visible, although the colors had undoubtedly faded. It had been painstakingly pecked out of the rock, as he could see as he walked closer, and then tinted--or so it appeared.
Indians, at least, had been here.
To the west, vision was obscured by dust; it was a fine dust set swirling by the least wind. He knew nothing of what lay out there except that beyond a part of it lay Blazer. The first thing was to find that broken wagon.
His guns, which had their rawhide thongs over them, had stayed with him. His knife was lost. Or was it?
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