He had thrust himself free—­apart from the horse—­but could not cling to the rotten ledge for more than half a second.  Then down once more he was falling, as before, only a heart-beat later than the pinto.

Out of the lip of the next shelf below the pony’s weight tore a jagged fragment.  The animal’s neck was broken, and he and the stone-mass plunged on downward together.

Van half way fell through a stubborn bush—­that clung with the mysterious persistency of life to a handful of soil in a crevice—­and his strong hands closed upon its branches.

He was halted with a jolt.  The pony hurtled loosely, grotesquely down the abyss, bounding from impacts with the terraces, and was presently lost to mortal sight in the dust and debris he carried below for a shroud.  Sounds of his striking—­dull, leaden sounds, tremendous in the all-pervading silence—­came clearly up to the top.  Then Van found his feet could be rested on the shelf, and he let himself relax to ease his arms.

CHAPTER III

A RESCUE

Beth had uttered that one cry only, as man and horse careened above the pit.  She now sat dumbly staring where the two had disappeared.  Nothing could she see of Van or his pony.  A chill of horror attacked her, there in the blaze of the sun.  It was not, even then, so much of herself and Elsa she was thinking—­two helpless women, lost in this place of terrible silence; she was smitten by the fate of their guide.

Van, for his part, looked about as best he might, observing his situation comprehensively.  He was safe for the moment.  The ledge whereon he was bearing a portion of his weight was narrow and crumbling with old disintegration.  The shrub to which he clung was as tough as wire cable, and had once been stoutly rooted in the crevice.  Now, however, its hold had been weakened by the heavy strain upon it, and yet he must continue to trust a part of his weight to its branches.  There was nothing, positively nothing, by which he could hope to climb to the trail up above.

He deliberately rested and fostered his breath, not a trifle of which had been jolted in violence from his body.  Presently he raised his voice and called out, as cheerfully as possible: 

“Ship ahoy!  Hullo—­Miss Laughing Water!”

For a moment there was no response.  Beth was to utterly overcome to speak.  She hardly dared believe it was his call she heard, issuing up from the tomb.  She feared that her hope, her frantic imagination, her wish to have it so, had conjured up a voice that had no genuine existence.  Her lips moved, but made no audible sound.  She trembled violently.  Van called again, with more of his natural power.

“Hullo!  Hullo!  Miss Beth—­are you up there on the trail?”

“Oh, yes!  Oh! what shall I do?” cried Beth in a sudden outburst of relief and pent-up emotions.  “Tell me what to do!”