XXIV THE STORM ROCK

Hour succeeded hour with snail-footed pace as Nick Ford stood lashed to his tree. He fought with his gag but it was jammed firmly into his mouth and held with tight wrapped bands. The coils of the stout leather reins swathed him securely to the tree. At noon he heard Ned ride by and repass on his way home again. The rider was scarcely thirty yards away. He made a fresh fight to free himself, but without avail. He had ceased to struggle long before Mary cantered by on Bobs as she set out for home. A pang smote the man as he realized that he had failed to warn her of her danger. As the sound of the horse's hoofs died away a strange emotion shook him. Weak from his struggles and the numbing pressure of his lashings, a pathetic sense of guilt crept accusingly over him. Big tears oozed out and rolled down his cheeks. Half crazed, he prayed wild prayers that the girl might escape the evil fate lurking on her trail.

An hour passed and he heard a voice call through the trees. Some urchin was seeking his cows. From the sound of the boy's approach he was coming straight for him. He was very near. Would he penetrate the bluff? The spot was quiet. Evidently the boy listened, but no sound occurring to attract his curiosity, he turned, whistling away, essaying some other quarter. Then happened a surprising thing. He had made but a few steps through the grass when Nick's horse lifted a sonorous whinny. Nick fervently blessed him for the intervention. It sounded like the sweetest music. The boy halted as if shot and whirling about ran into the bluff. He found the horse and vehicle at once and, a moment later, the man. Alarmed at first he retreated, but in a little set busily to work releasing the captive. In a very short time Nick was free.

"You are a good boy," said he gratefully as he made swift preparations for the ride to the homestead. "I was tied to that tree by a couple of scamps. I'll let you know all about it again. Just now I am in a great hurry to let Ned Pullar know, for he is mighty interested. Many thanks, lad. Bye, bye."

The boy gazed with astonished eyes as the man leaped on the bare back of his horse and galloped through the trees.

Nick soon clattered into the Pullar yard. At the sound of the horseman Ned and his father stepped out of the stable. The sight of the rider and his evident excitement filled Ned with foreboding.

"Why the rush, Nick?" said he as he ran up.

"Listen hard, Ned," was the swift reply. "Get your bronc. I can talk while you saddle. I hit out this way this morning to let you know, but Sykes and Foyle copped me in the bluff near the school. You're up against blankety hard luck. That deal of Foyle's was a frame-up. I was in it and helped the gang dope your old man. I'm squealing now because you've got the whitest little girl in the West and you'll have to burn the trail if you are going to save her from Reddy Sykes. McClure's bloods are waiting somewhere over the lake to run them to Whytewold. There they take the Limited for God knows where. You may be able to overhaul them, for this wind is mussing up the lake something fierce and they'll lose a couple of hours scooting around the west end. Take a look at Grant's Landing on the go-by."

By the time Nick uttered the last words Ned was in the saddle.

"Thank you, Nick," was his grateful cry as he flashed away.

"We'll follow him," cried Edward Pullar, as he watched the flying horseman vanish at the end of the lane. "Sykes is a dangerous man and the lad has nothing but his bare hands."

Leaning low over Darkey's neck, Ned heartened the lithe brute with the courage of his voice. As they flew along, the school gleamed down a vista. The memory of their last moments together, of the small white figure so lonely and beset, swept him with an agony of apprehension. Though his horse was skimming the trail with the speed of a swallow, their pace seemed laggard to the anguished rider and he plunged in his spurs. Smitten with fear, the animal leaped ahead at breakneck speed. Instantly Ned realized the wantonness of the act. Pulling gently he called penitently into the black ears:

"Forgive me, Darkey. I was cruel. I will do it no more. But carry me fast, lad."

The kind tone soothed the horse and he settled into a steady stride that devoured the miles. Overhead a change had taken place unnoticed by Ned in the hurry-skurry of his start. The belt of blue clouds had spread over the sky. Above was the explosion and flame of the breaking storm, about him the whirl of the wind and enveloping clouds of dust. It was a wild race through the hurricane to the brow of the Northwest Cut. Recklessly they dashed down the ravine, the sound of the pounding hoofs lost in the roar of the tempest. The dense cloud masses flung over them the shadow of a deep twilight.

Bursting from the Cut he halted on the crown of the slope. Below was the lake, a frowning gloom, horrible with the white fangs of the storm caps. High over the Storm Rock rose an ominous cloud of spray. Above the hiss of the whistling wind he could hear the low moan of writhing waters.

Swiftly he read the turbid surface, tracing the shore line now scarcely distinguishable in the brown murk. Near at hand was Grant's Landing. He started as he detected upon it a group of people. They were looking out into the lake. At sight of them, there came to him an augury of evil. With a heavy foreboding he sent his horse thundering down the slope. Leaping from the saddle he ran in among the watchers. In the uproar they had not heard him ride up.

"There is something wrong!" cried a fearful voice. "They are drifting. They will strike the rock."

He recognized the voice of Margaret Grant.

Her father was the first to discover his presence.

"Aye, lad! Is it you? 'Tis terrible distress we are in. McClure's bairn is oot on the fell water."

He pointed to the foam-streaked lake.

"Where are they?" shouted Ned.

Margaret heard his voice.

"Ned, Ned!" she cried, running to him. "Mary's out on the lake with Sykes and Foyle. There they are."

Straining his eyes he followed her hand. The boat was far out, visible only in fleeting glimpses when riding the crest of a wave. They were running before the wind, bearing down on the Storm Rock. Should the boat strike, it would be crushed like an egg-shell. They were now so close no escape was possible. It was but a matter of moments.

As the terrible truth came home to Ned, he stood motionless, impotent, looking with blanching face on the impending tragedy. A great sob rolled up his breast. He wanted to scream a warning over the chaos of wind and flood. Suddenly it seemed to him but a little way to Mary after all. Only the threatening chasm of the malignant waters. Should it keep them apart? He smiled that strange, innocent smile that came out somewhere from the indomitable depths of him. He would take up the gauge of the malign thing grinning at him out there in the gloom. He would swim to the rock. Running far up the shore he divested himself of boots, coat and vest and threw himself on the rollers.

Charley Grant had followed him, thinking he had espied some means of rescue. As he saw him plunge into the lake he shouted wildly:

"Come back, mon! Ye're daft to reesk it. Ye'll perish, lad."

But Ned could not hear him.

To the little company upon the landing it was a moment of horror. Their fearful interest alternated between the daring swimmer and the boat careering upon the rock.

"Mother! They are striking!" cried Margaret in a voice of awe.

As she was speaking the boat rose high, poised a moment on the black waters, then vanished.

All eyes were strained to snatch a glimpse of the unfortunate craft. But no vestige of it could they discover.

"They are gone, Mother! Gone!" moaned the girl, hiding her face in her mother's breast.

"Can you see the lad?" called the mother, her vision blurred in tears.

Shading his eyes, Charley Grant searched the waves.

"Aye, aye! I see him yet," was the relieved cry.

For a few minutes they were able to see the head of the swimmer bob about on the tossing flood. Then it, too, vanished in the ominous gloom.

Flung high on a hissing breaker, Ned saw the boat strike and go out like the snuffing of a light. For a moment his heart seemed to hold its beat and he lay weak and helpless in the trough of the wave. Then he prayed as men do when they come to grips with death. There came a response. A new vigour flooded his body and with strokes of powerful sweep, he swam on toward the rock. It was now down wind and he made straight for it, taking the chance of being dashed upon its granite face. Watching with eagle eye he bided his time, keeping his course dead upon the rock's centre. As it loomed above a huge swell lifted him. Blinded with spray he lay on the breaker awaiting the onset. It flung him on the rock with the catapult of its snapping crest. Holding out his hands he sought to ward the crash from his head. His strong arms took the impact, the bones of his shoulders creaking under the strain. Withal his head struck a jagged point. Sense reeled and he rolled hither and thither, like a log on the churning wash. By a mighty effort he righted himself and feeling a sharp edge, clung to it with all the strength of his powerful clutch. Caught in the lateral flow of the split wave he was carried to the side. Clinging to the jutting ledge by a sort of hand-over-hand movement, he was floated around the rock. So far was he borne that he could see the quieter waters of the lee shelter. Ten feet more and he would be there. Then ensued a fierce struggle. The subsiding wave sought to drag him back into the lake. With hands torn on the ragged edges he fought to retain his precarious hold. A moment's baffling balancing and the wave passed on. Quickly he drew himself into a shielding niche. There he rested, breathing heavily. In a little he would search the rock.

Clambering up the side he attempted to scan the upper surface, at the same instant lifting a shout. But the wind snatched the cry from his lips and flung him down the rock. The brief glance had disclosed to him an astonishing thing, however. The rock was as bare as the nude surface of a melting berg. The cottonwoods and their patch of clinging turf had been swept away, leaving only the naked contour of the original monolith. The emptiness of the place smote him with a dread fear. Climbing cautiously into the teeth of the storm he shouted again, throwing a name into the uproar. But the wind hurled him back once more. As he caught his feet he was thrilled to hear a shout. It came from the spot where he had struck. Shouting with the full power of his throat he clambered to the edge. A heavy billow had dashed upon the reef, flinging aloft a cloud of spray. Something at the base of the cloud held his fascinated gaze. Fighting the buffeting deluge he sought to visualize the thing before him. In the blur of the gray mist he thought he defined a phantom figure balanced on the wave-battered edge of the rock. One arm hung strangely at its side, while the other was lifted in effort to maintain a footing upon the slippery surface. As he looked there was a thunderous roar. An enormous wave had rolled up. Lifting the struggling figure on its foaming crest it whisked it across the rock. In the swift passage it fought to catch its feet, succeeding for the briefest instant only. Upon the lee edge of the rock the figure stood up in the wave and lifted a warding hand. But it could not breast the whelming flow and was swept like a chip into the darkness beyond. As the figure vanished into the mists there broke on Ned's ear a weird shout. It sounded like the mocking laugh of a fiend.

A shudder swept over the hearer. The phantom was Chesley Sykes.

While the horror of the moment was still heavy upon him he heard what seemed like an answering shout. The quality of it thrilled him, for it was a woman's cry. Looking over the bare surface he was amazed to detect the rump stump of the ragged oak. Low at its base lay a clinging shadow. Megaphoning with his hands he shouted with all his might. He was electrified to catch a distinct reply. The voice? He knew it. A wild joy surged through him. It was Mary. She was clinging to the oak.

Swamped by the panic of the mad moment he was about to dash over the rock, when there flashed before him the fate of that phantom figure. He restrained the wild desire and studying the rock saw that by a detour of the lee side he could reach to within a few yards of the oak. A swift run over a dangerous buttress and he would be with Mary. Fearful that the tremendous waves might wrench her free, he worked about the rock with furious impatience, making the circuit without mishap. With a sharp flit he was over the buttress.

The girl was plainly nearing the limit of her endurance and looked into his face with a half-fearful wonder as he lifted her in his arms.

"Ned!" she cried, "you are not Sykes? I thought I heard him cry a little ago with such a terrible, screaming laugh."

"It is Ned, dear," was his cry as he placed her more securely against the oak. "Rest a little. You are very weak but you will recover shortly."

Kneeling upon the rock, he took the oak in his hands and, turning his back to the storm, crouched above her, so shielding her from the pounding waves and the chill of the hurricane. Huge billows continued to deluge the rock and their smashing force soon began to tell. She discovered before he did that his strength was going. After an exhausting struggle with an unusually powerful wave, she called to him.

"Let me go, Ned. You cannot stand much more. That last almost swung you about the tree."

"I will crouch lower," said Ned. "The wind will subside soon. Then I can carry you to that shelter under the ledge."

Thrilled by the magic of her clinging touch he would not acknowledge the fearful inroads the long struggle had made on his strength. Now he knew no terror. True, a dizziness would confuse him at times on the heels of the heavier swells, but he clutched the tree and clung till it passed.

"You cannot stand many more," cried the girl fearfully. "Leave me. You can still make the shelter or swim——"

"Hush, Mary!" was the cheery reply. "You would rob me of the happiest moment I have ever known. We'll stick together, dear. We are good for a lot of roughing yet."

"You will not leave me, Ned?"

"Not ever, Mary."

"Ned, dear heart!" was the caressing cry. "This is a wonderful moment. It is worth all the cruelty of these last, long months and the horror of this terrible day. You are the dearest pal."

"Pal?" cried Ned, looking into the dark eyes. "What pals we'll be!"

That they were tortured with the smiting waves and facing death with each succeeding roller, only enhanced the supreme joy of their confession.

"We are going to get out of this all right," said Ned, as he breathed heavily from a battle with a mighty wave. "You hardly think it possible, little one, you have been so broken by this battering storm. But we'll beat it all, water, wind and human guile."

Suddenly he straightened up and placed hand to ear.

"Listen, Mary!" he called. "Can you not hear it? There are voices coming up the wind."

They listened. From the lee of the rock came a faint shout. Together they replied. Again the shout and this time astonishingly close.

"There is a boat near," cried Ned. "I caught a glimpse of it through the spray."

With the sudden prospect of rescue, hope leaped up afresh. A new courage entered their minds and a strange new strength their bodies. Both were opportune, for now they entered upon a desperate struggle with successions of formidable waves. They had nearly passed when the black dizziness, that of late had been recurring with alarming frequency, fell suddenly upon Ned. Fainting under the exertion he sank. His head hung over the edge of the rock and only the super-human efforts of his companion prevented him from plunging headlong into the lake.

"Mary!" he cried as consciousness came dimly back. "I have been asleep. Did the roller beat me that time?"

"You were nearly gone," cried the girl faintly.

"How did you ever hold me, dear?"

"I don't know, Ned. But you are here. You cannot stand another. Is the boat near?"

The girl's voice had a terror in it that smote Ned with pity.

The boat at that moment rode through the choppy waves, to shelter at the base of the rock. The instant the prow struck a great figure leaped out of her and scrambled up over the ledge. As it straightened up for the dash to the oak, Ned was amazed to behold the face of Rob McClure. It was distorted by a terror born of no sense of physical danger. There was a poignant agony in his voice as he cried:

"Mary, Mary! Are you here?"

"She is here and safe," shouted Ned in reply.

Stooping down Ned exerted all his strength and lifting the small form, placed her in her father's arms.

"Brace against that stump," cried Ned as a billow hit them.

"Daddy! You have come!" cried the girl as she nestled in her father's arms. Upon her face was the look of wonder inexplicable with which she had greeted Ned. In Ned's eyes was a wonder even greater. He was pondering this astounding enigma when a cloud swept over his mind with a horrible enveloping and he fell on the rock. A fresh wave clutched him as two shadows darted to where he lay.

"Just in time!" cried the voice of Andy Bissett, as he fought the wave for possession of the inert form.

"Shure, 'tis full spint is the lad," was the response of Easy Murphy. "There's been a divil of a scrap wid wind and wathurr on this bauld-headed stone."

"It has been a wonderful fight," agreed Andy as they got their burden safely out of the clutch of the breakers.

"Thrue, me hearty! And the swate colleen wuz worth it, begobs."

In the boat were Lawrie and Jean Benoit and another—Foyle. He was haggard and dishevelled and silent.

Securing their precious salvage the crew explored the rock, shouting loudly in hope of another survivor, but the only reply was the uproar of the tempest. Convinced that no living thing remained they shoved off and ran for the southeast shore.