Far below, Mitch dangled from the ledge, one hand locked around a gnarled tree root jutting from the cliff face. His shoulders trembled with strain as he held on with his body swinging over the churning water.
Doug was gone. Swept away.
Dirt ground into my elbows as I leaned out farther. "Hold on!"
He clawed for the root with his free hand. Missed. Tried again. His fingers closed around it, but the root shifted, dirt crumbling away in a shower of pebbles that rained into the water below.
Shit, that root can't hold him. It's going to break.
His boots scraped against the cliff face, searching for purchase. They found a small outcrop. He pushed up, taking some weight off his arms, and hauled himself higher. Muscles strained. Another foothold. Another pull.
Inch by inch, he climbed until finally his chest hit the ledge. He dragged himself onto the narrow shelf of rock and collapsed, gasping.
"Mitch. Are you okay?" My voice cracked.
He didn't reply. Just lay there, chest heaving.
"Mitch!"
"Yeah." His voice was hoarse. "I'm okay."
Relief flooded through me. I dropped my forehead to the dirt, a sob tearing from my throat.
Mitch and I were alive.
But Doug wasn't.
Blinking back tears, I peered over the edge again.
Mitch was on his hands and knees, gathering something from the ledge.
He's collecting the jewels.
My breath caught. He grabbed the pouch, tipped the gems and jewelry into it, then shoved it into his front pocket.
Doug had died for those damn things. And now Mitch was pocketing them?
He stretched out on his stomach, arm extending toward Doug's rifle. The strap had caught on a rock below him.
"What are you doing?" I called down. "Just leave it!"
He kept reaching, fingers straining.
Jesus, is he crazy? "Mitch, you'll fall!"
His fingers closed around the leather strap. He pulled the rifle back, checked it briefly, then slung it over his shoulder.
He looked up at me. "I'm coming up. Get back from the edge."
I didn't move. The universe had already proven it could take everything from me in an instant.
Mitch moved slowly, testing each handhold, pulling himself up.
"You're doing great," I called down, trying to sound encouraging. I pressed my chin to the backs of my hands, watching him, breathing through my panic.
He reached for another hold. His hand slipped, and a cry tore from my throat as he clawed at the rock face until his fingers gripped. He paused, and his body went rigid, like his limbs were seizing up.
"You okay?" I asked.