by Noel Loomis
He looked up at that tiny hole in the sky, and now it looked miles away. He tried to holler, but after a while he was hoarse.
He had tools, and he thought of digging out at a slant, but he knew the dangers of shifting earth when a man was digging from underneath, and he also realized that it might take weeks.
He looked up at that sky again. It was now so far away. For a few feet he could see the serrated line of the planking; then it was lost in the gloom, and he realized the sun was getting low. He had been in the well all day, and he noticed that the water now was about up to the top of the pile of rope.
He looked up again. The sky was a very dark blue, and he supposed the sun had gone down. He knew now that there was no hope of rescue that night.
He sat on top of the coil of rope until about ten o’clock, when the sky lightened a little, and he knew the moon was up. He could not see much except stars, and presently, against the deep purple of the sky, the serrated column of planks on one side of the well.
Wait a minute! Those serrated edges! The sections of planking all sloped in at the top, out at the bottom. They would provide good hand-holds and fair footing. Was it possible he could climb his way out of the well?
He stood up, calculating. He could lift himself from one edge to the next. He would have to test every section to be sure it was solid, for it was too dark to see.
He pulled himself up until he stood on the bottom section with his hands on top of it. Then he moved his hands to the top of the next section above, and brought his feet up to the next ledge.
He did not look down, but he counted the sections. There were approximately eighty sections, and that meant eighty lifts. He went up ten sections, and had seventy to go, and already his toes ached from the strain. Thirty feet up; he had over two hundred feet to go.
He went up another ten sections, and his strength began to give. He went up a third set of ten and his upper arms ached painfully. He went up a fourth set of ten, and was halfway, but his fingers were almost totally numb, his feet were like lumps, and his upper arms were lanced through and through with sharp, stabbing pains. He would have given ten years of his life for a rest.
He tried to brace himself with his legs across to the opposite side, but the distance was too far. He started up again, and this time tried to transfer the lift to his thighs. It worked fine for the fifth set of ten, but then suddenly his thighs went weak, and he was faced with the fact that soon it would be an impossibility to raise himself with his legs. He had felt them almost give way on the last two sections, so he switched to his arms, and at the first pull he felt the sharp pain cut through the backs of his upper arms, and now the muscles in his forearms seemed to feel it.
He saw the moon go straight over, and knew he had been there longer than he thought. It must be around one o’clock. Three hours on that wall and he had gone fifty sections! Now the only problem was how to go the last thirty sections—the last ninety feet.
He caught his fingers sliding off the edge of a plank, and switched for a while to the sides of his palms. He pulled up three times with his arms, and then once with his legs. He alternated from a straight side pull to a corner pull; he changed from fingers to the edges of his palms, hanging on grimly, desperately; he watched his feet, turned them as flat as he could so he could step on the whole length of them, and found some relief.
He made it up the sixth set of ten. Two more sets to go. He kept moving, and now became super-cautious, for he was near to freedom, and he did not want to waste the painful effort he had put in already.
He tested every section to be sure there were no loose boards, he went up one section and then moved around slowly, changing his weight as well as he could from one set of muscles to another. In that fashion he made it to the top of the seventh set of ten sections. The eighth and ninth sets left him exhausted.
He started up the last set of ten and moved to the corner, careful that his feet should not misstep. He went up two sections that way, carefully feeling his way along the top of each plank with his almost senseless fingers, then clinging with the side of his palm or the heel of the palm or even the heel of the thumb. His hands were raw and bleeding and the slipperiness of his own blood was a hazard.
Slowly, laboriously he made his way up the third section. The pains now shot through his entire back, through his hips, through the calves of his legs, through his thighs when he used them. His neck ached from looking up, and he quit doing that because he could see nothing but stars anyway. He got up five sections and rested for a moment, his face flat against the rough wood.
He willed himself up another section and then another.
Three sections to go. Only three sections. He rested a little, moved to the corner, kept lifting his hands and putting them down, beating the backs of his fingers to restore circulation, drawing them hard across the rough wood.
He went up another, and for a moment felt a lift as he calculated how close he was to delivery. Then he felt for the next one, and his first hand slipped off. He shook his fingers loosely, and then tried again. He found the edge and clung to it, went up one more.
One more to go. One more section. He was elated, but he must be careful. No slips now. He went up—and bumped his head squarely on top.
For a moment he saw stars, but he held on, wondering. Then he knew something he had completely forgotten: the curbing at the top of the well was built out over the well itself. The well was four feet wide and the curbing had a three-foot opening. The curbing was of bricks and something like two feet high. He tried to reach the top of the curbing from where he was, but the offset prevented him. To be stopped now, two and a half feet from solid earth. There had to be a way out.
He looked for a possible rope hanging from the pulley, but of course there was none. He looked at the pulley itself, and a thought struck him. It was mounted on an iron shaft laid across the walls of the curbing, and he would not have to reach around an offset to get to it. He could see its outline plainly against the stars, and reached for it, but missed it by three inches.
He studied it for a moment, and finally worked his way to the other side of the well, trying each side as he went, to see if he could reach. But he could not. With his passion for symmetry and orderliness, he had put the pulley in the exact center of the well, and it was three inches from his fingers at any point.
He knew that he could not hang there very long. The effort of reaching had weakened him already. He looked again at the pulley, outlined against the stars, and realized there was now only one choice: he had to jump for the pulley.
He made sure he was in the right place; he tested the footing; he leaned far out, holding with one hand, reaching with the other. He felt the one hand slip for the last time, with no other hand to relieve it, and no time to get it down. He went through a fleeting instant of blinding panic, and then he leaped with all the power he could summon from his flagging muscles. He felt his fingers close around the rim of the pulley, and he swung free in the well. His other hand found the pulley, and with one last impossible effort he swung his legs up and through the opening until he lay on his back on the curbing. He got one hand on the curbing and pulled himself clear, and fell on the ground outside.
He lost consciousness for a while out of sheer exhaustion and long-anticipated relief, and then the cool morning air revived him. Presently he got to his knees and then to his feet and went into his cabin. He lay at full length on the floor for a while, and felt some strength flow into his arms and legs and back and shoulders. Finally he got up. The sorrel was nowhere around, and he set off down the road on foot for Turner’s Tavern.
CHAPTER XVIII
For a while he lurched through the dust, following the trail unconsciously, but after a time the early-morning crowing of Nosey Porter’s much-prized Plymouth Rock rooster came to him from across the prairie. With relief he began to realize that he was out of the well, and alive, and for the first time he could take a deep, free breath, and feel grateful that he was walkin
g on the road instead of lying in a pulpy mass at the bottom of the well.
He shuddered in the early-morning air, and the long nightmare of terror and strain came over him anew, and he broke out in a cold sweat as he remembered the three inches that had stood between him and death.
But he kept moving forward, and was relieved when at last he saw the Turner road-ranch, because, for a while he had wondered if the Otos had actually rampaged through the country. But now the light smoke ascending straight into the still morning air and the fragrant smell of burning cedar assured him that the Indians were still under control.
He was within a quarter of a mile of Turner’s when a man galloped up from the river on a black horse, jumped off in front of Turner’s, and ran inside without tying the horse.
Ferguson tried to run, but fell down; he was so drugged with fatigue that he did not at once get up. Then finally he got to his feet, shook his head and went the rest of the way. He ducked under the low door-frame and heard Logan’s voice: “I’ll find him. That much I promise you.”
Tom Turner, looking up in astonishment as Ferguson entered, said soothingly, “I don’t think he never done nothin’, Mr. Logan.”
Ferguson looked at the man’s triangular face and very black beard, and remembered what No Horse had told him about Logan. “What about No Horse?” he asked.
Logan stared at him. “He cut Benson’s throat, and I’m going to find him.” He moistened his lips; then he said: “You’re defending him.”
“I don’t need to defend him. He hasn’t done anything.”
Logan’s eyes were fiery. “He’ll hang for this. I’ll see he does!”
Ferguson said with scorn, “Quit trying to buy an Indian squaw, and No Horse won’t have to chase you off the reservation.”
Logan rushed at him, hit him once, and Ferguson went down. Logan started to kick him in the throat, but Tom Turner’s voice stopped him: “Hold it, Logan!”
The editor recovered his balance and turned to look into the twin barrels of the shotgun.
Turner said, “You come from the river. Maybe you just left the reservation, like Ferguson said.”
Ferguson got up slowly. “Maybe he got kicked out of the village again.”
“I’m warning you,” said Logan, “that Injun is no good. I’ll get him and he’ll hang.”
Ferguson watched him go.
Turner said, “Where you been? I didn’t see you all day yesterday.”
Ferguson looked at him and started to answer, then changed his mind about what he would say. “I’ve been up at my place,” he said.
“Grimes and Ackerman was both by, and they couldn’t raise you.”
Ferguson saw, from the corner of his eye, that Sally was looking in from the kitchen. He knew already that nothing untoward had happened, but now he was puzzled and hurt that they took his disappearance so casually. So he said, “I wasn’t too far away.” At the same time he wanted to ask Sally what had happened to her, but wouldn’t say anything until she came in.
Tom brought him some water. “You hungry?” he asked.
“Tol’able,” said Ferguson. “How about pancakes?”
“Sure.”
Ferguson heard Sally whip the batter a couple of times with the big iron spoon, then heard the batter sizzle as she poured it into a frying pan.
“Anything happen yesterday?” asked Ferguson.
Turner looked at him quizzically. “Well, not much more than I said. Roy Ernest was by, lookin’ for you to go to Mr. Benson’s cabin with him; said he’d wait.”
“Has anybody made plans for the funeral?”
“They held it up, waitin’ for you—but Job Sye went acrost and got Reverend Sledge to preach over him this afternoon.”
“What about the ferry?”
“Obie went down to help Noah on this end, and they brought fourteen loads of sheep acrost yesterday. Pretty good day’s work, sounds like to me.”
“That’s around twenty-four hundred head.”
“Twenty-five hundred and twenty,” Turner said proudly.
“Where are the boys this morning?”
“They was up early,” Turner chuckled. “I reckon they figured to move more today than yesterday.”
“What about Mawson?”
“He was around, but he and his men didn’t help. It was the emigrants that helped Teddy Root.”
Sally came in with the pancakes, set them down in front of Ferguson without looking at him, and went back. He watched her go, wondering what had happened: he noted that she apparently had something on beneath her dress, and guessed that she had spent the night fashioning a petticoat out of flour-sacks. She was a good girl and would make a good wife. Suddenly he wanted to jump up and grab her and ask what was the matter, but he thought better of it, for she might have changed her mind about him. A few hours’ delay wouldn’t hurt, he thought, and it might bring an easier answer.
Ferguson looked around for coffee but saw none. Turner noticed the movement and said quickly, “I’ll get it for you.” Ferguson stared at him as he waddled to the kitchen. Something was bothering Tom too, and when he returned, Ferguson looked at him and was about to ask him what it was, when Tom turned away—hurriedly, it seemed to Ferguson—and took his place by the beer keg.
Ferguson drank the coffee gratefully, and when it was empty and Tom had returned, he asked: “Where is Mr. Benson’s body?”
“They took it to Roy Ernest’s. He had the young’uns sleep in the wagon.”
“Is there any evidence as to who did it?”
“I reckon not,” said Turner.
“You hear what happened to Simmons?”
“He took out—was up to the Forks, last I heard, tryin’ to tie onto a wagon train.” Turner looked suddenly at Ferguson. “D’ye suppose he had anything to do with the murder?”
Ferguson frowned. “I can’t see any good reason why he should have killed Mr. Benson. That would not have restored the land to him.”
Ferguson put down his fork and got up. “No matter what happens,” he said, “I am going to find the man who killed Mr. Benson.”
Turner eyed him obliquely. “You better take care of them sheep first.”
“I’m going to.” He looked at the door. “Who’s coming now?”
“It’s a woman,” said Turner. “She come from Mrs. Talbot’s direction—but it ain’t Mrs. Talbot.”
Ferguson began to feel some strength in his legs again. They were sore, but they had muscle.
The door opened, and a woman stepped in. She was very similar to Mrs. Talbot, but smaller and rather profusely wrinkled, though she did not seem old.
She looked at Tom Turner. “Is this Turner’s road-ranch?” she demanded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I came to find out—” She espied Ferguson, and advanced to where she could snap her fingers under his nose. “What have you done with them?” she demanded.
“Who is ‘them’?” asked Ferguson.
“First, you killed her husband. Then you committed mayhem on my husband, and he has not been back since.”
“I have seen him,” said Ferguson. “Maybe he didn’t want to go back.”
“And now you’ve done away with her.”
Ferguson squinted. “Who’s her?”
“My sister, Mrs. Talbot.”
“I haven’t done anything with her,” said Ferguson. “Have you been to her cabin?”
“I have,” she said righteously, “but she isn’t there.”
Turner said, “Mrs. Talbot is of age, and it ain’t our job to keep track of her.”
“She’s my sister—my own sister, and you broke her husband’s back.”
“It was a fair fight,” he said, “and the back-breaking was an accident.” He watched the woman wring her hands, and knew she was wrought up, and could well understand why. He said gently, “Mrs. Wiggins, we’ll try to find your sister; I don’t think she’s very far away. And your husband probably will appear around the ferry sometime today.”
“I’ve got to have him,” she said brokenly, and tears began to drop down her cheeks. “I can’t take care of the oxen, and I have no money for food. I—” She began to cry aloud.
Ferguson gave her a gold piece. “Consider this a loan,” he said.
She stared at him through her tears. “From you—the bone-breaker?”
He shrugged. “Usually the worst of men has a good streak in him. It’s not a thing I ever count on,” he said steadily, “but sometimes it’s a pleasant surprise.”
She looked at the ten-dollar piece in her hand, and started to give it back to him, but Ferguson said: “It is money honestly made, Mrs. Wiggins, and I hope you will keep it as long as you need it. Children have to eat, and they do not understand a mother’s being out of money.”
She started to cry again, and Ferguson slipped out. Turner could comfort her; Ferguson had other business at hand. He looked around for a horse or mule to ride to the ferry, but saw nothing but Mrs. Wiggins’ horse. He walked toward the well and discovered the sorrel eating corn from a wooden bucket nearby. He took the saddle off the well curbing and put it on the sorrel and cinched it up. The sorrel had finished eating, and he rode up to the door of the lean-to and said, “Thank you, Miss Sally, for feeding my horse.”
She appeared in the doorway for an instant, very coolly said, “You’re welcome, I’m sure,” and went back.
He rode off, wondering what had happened in the one day he had been out of circulation. He rode toward the ferry, made out a small dust cloud two or three miles north, and thought it would be Logan. He heard a galloping horse behind him, and turned the sorrel to meet Roy Ernest, long legs akimbo.
“When we goin’ to look over Benson’s place?” he asked. “When is the funeral?”
“One o’clock—right after dinner.”
Ferguson said, “I want to look over the ferry, and I may have to go across the river. Let’s put off going to Mr. Benson’s place until after the funeral.”
“All right with me. I don’t reckon he left much anyway.”
“I doubt it—but I thought we might find the address of a relative who ought to be notified.”
