Those remaining ten minutes tried all that there was of endurance in Virginia Page.  Often Norton, bidding her wait a moment, climbed on to some narrow ledge above her and, drawing the rope steadily through his hands, gave her what aid he could; often, clinging with hand and foot she thought breathlessly of the steep fall of cliff which the darkness hid from her eyes, but which grew ever steeper in her mind as she struggled on.  He had said it would be easier in daylight; she wondered if after all it would not have been more difficult could she have seen just what were the chances she was taking at every moment.  But more and more she came to have utter faith in the quiet man going on before her, and in the piece of rope which stretched taut between them.

“And now,” said Norton at last, when once more he had drawn her up to him and they stood close together upon a narrow ledge, “we’ve got a good, safe trail under foot.  Good news, eh?”

But as he moved on now he kept her hand locked tight in his own.  Their “good, safe trail” was a rough ledge running almost horizontally along the cliffside, its trend scarcely perceptibly upward.  Within twenty steps it led them into a wide, V-shaped fissure in the rocks.  Then came a sort of cup in a nest of rugged peaks, its bottom filled with imprisoned soil worn from the spires above.  As Norton, relinquishing her hand, went forward swiftly she heard a man’s voice saying weakly: 

“That you, Rod?”

“I came as soon as I could, Brocky.”  Norton, standing close to a big outjutting boulder upon the far side of the cup, was bending over the cattleman.  “How are you making out, old man?”

“I’ve sure been having one hell of a nice little party,” grunted Brocky Lane faintly.  “A man’s so damn close to heaven on these mountain tops. . . .  Who’s that?”

Virginia came forward quickly and went down on her knees at Lane’s side.

“I’m Dr. Page,” she said quietly.  “Now if you’ll tell me where you’re hit . . . and if Mr. Norton will get me some sort of a light.  A fire will have to do. . . .”

Another little grunt came from Brocky Lane’s tortured lips, this time a wordless expression of his unmeasured amazement.

“I didn’t want Patten in on this,” Norton explained.  “Miss Page is a doctor; just got into San Juan to-day.  She’s a cousin of Engle.  And she knows her business a whole lot better than Patten does, besides.”

“Will you get the fire started immediately, Mr. Norton?” asked Virginia somewhat sharply.  “Mr. Lane has waited long enough as it is.”

“I’ll be damned!” said Brocky Lane weakly.  And then, more weakly still, in a voice which broke despite a manful effort to make it both steady and careless, “I never cuss like that unless I’m delerious, anyhow I never cuss when there’s a lady. . . .”

“If you’ll keep perfectly still,” Virginia admonished him quickly, “I’ll do all the talking that is necessary.  Where is the wound?”