Yaqui tried again.
This time it caught in a crack. He pulled hard. Then, holding
to the lasso, he walked up the steep slant, hand over hand on the
rope. When he reached the shelf he motioned for Gale to follow.
Gale found that method of scaling a wall both quick and easy.
Yaqui pulled up the lasso, and threw the stick aloft into another
crack. He climbed to another shelf, and Gale followed him. The
third effort brought them to a more rugged bench a hundred feet
above the slides. The Yaqui worked round to the left, and turned
into a dark fissure. Gale kept close to his heels. They came
out presently into lighter space, yet one that restricted any
extended view. Broken sections of cliff were on all sides.
Here the ascent became toil. Gale could distance Yaqui
going downhill; on the climb, however, he was hard put
to it to keep the Indian in sight. It was not a question
of strength or lightness of foot. These Gale had beyond the
share of most men. It was a matter of lung power, and the Yaqui's
life had been spent scaling the desert heights. Moreover, the
climbing was infinitely slow, tedious, dangerous. On the way up
several times Gale imagined he heard a dull roar of falling water.
The sound seemed to be under him, over him to this side and to that.
When he was certain he could locate the direction from which it
came then he heard it no more until he had gone on. Gradually he
forgot it in the physical sensations of the climb.
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