When a man has spent nearly all his life in the midst of great, open spaces, certain of his faculties attain a high state of development—unless he is one of those incompetents who never does grow up to the requirements of his vocation. Spider was not an incompetent; he had learned to see a great deal in a short space of time, and to rise instinctively to an emergency. Though he had lost Vida in the cañon it was because he had not suspected her of deliberately trying to evade him and so had kept to the logical course, which was up the main ravine. He had not been greatly concerned over her immediate welfare—he had too great a confidence in her ability to take care of herself, and he believed himself to be within shouting distance of her; indeed, he had been until she turned up the side gulch and so widened the distance between them.
But even if he did not worry very much about her he kept his eyes open and let no living thing move unseen within his range of vision. He saw Vida the instant she came out upon the crest of the ridge, and he saw that she was running from something. Instinctively he knew what that something was, and he dug the spurs into his horse and charged the bluff as if he were leading an army against some puny breastwork. The slope was steep there, and the half sterile soil was baked hard between the grass tufts. His horse went lunging up to where he was stopped by the broken rim of lava rock which tops two-thirds of the desert bluffs and makes hill traveling so laborious.
Spider jumped off and scrambled up the rocks much as Vida had done upon the other side of the ridge, but with better progress. Once, when he was feeling for a handhold above him where the ledge was almost straight above his head, he heard a shout on the level above. It sounded like Burney's high-pitched voice raised in a command to some one. It seemed odd that Burney should be up there with Vida. He had believed that Burney was riding off the other way, toward the river.
He clutched a splinter of rock, pulled himself up half his length, and looked over the ledge upon baked soil that still sloped steeply up to the crest. He drew himself up by sheer muscular strength over the smooth, black rim and ran up the bluff on his toes until another ledge blocked the way and he must climb again, foot by foot, clinging with his hands and his feet to the face of the rock. Had there been time he might have found a crevice and gone up more easily, but there was not time; at least, it was not for him to take for granted anything save the girl's dire need of him.
He was still a few feet from the rim of the ledge when he heard her scream somewhere above him. And close upon the sound of that came the hoarse bellowing cry that once before he had heard and had never been able wholly to forget. His breath caught in his throat, but he went on, climbing now like a madman to reach the girl in time.
It seemed to him hours that he spent on that ledge, toiling upward with Vida's scream and that other horrible cry ringing still in his ears. It seemed to him that he made no headway at all, but climbed and climbed in one spot. Yet he presently found himself somehow on the top, running up the bare crest of the ridge toward a titanic struggle of some sort; what he could not at first determine. He did not see Vida anywhere, and when he realized that she was not a part of the struggle he drew his breath sharply and slowed a little, conscious of his exhaustion.
Then, just when he was steadying a little from that nightmare of fear for the girl, he saw her lying on the stunted grass, all crumpled in a heap where she had fallen. Close beside her they were straining and struggling—two giants of men whose breath came in great gasps while they fought.
Panting, dazed to blank uncomprehension, Spider drew near and watched the amazing spectacle. There was Burney fighting doggedly, silently—fighting for his life. And there was another huge human, and yet not all human, fighting with little, harsh snarls of sheer animal rage and the lust for killing—fighting not for his own life, but for the lives of these others. He was dressed in Burney's old clothes—Spider remembered the gray-striped trousers which Burney had worn a year or so ago; tattered now, torn short off at the hairy knees of the giant. He was like Burney in size and general outline of face and figure, and yet his face was the face of an animal, with its protruding jaw and receding forehead and broad, flat nostrils. His eyes were little and twinkling and set deep under his bushy brows. His arms were hairy, his legs were hairy, his feet, which were bare, were huge, misshapen things with queer-looking toes.