He sat down and took his boot off. It was a hard job working with the manacles on. His plan was to try and lift the post and then, while he held it an inch off the ground, slide his boot tip in under it. Then, with the base of the post held off the ground enough for the chain to pass under, he’d get down on the ground, slide the chain under until he got to his boot tip, and then yank himself free. He had no idea if it would work or not.
He rested a few minutes, thinking about it, and then stood up and got himself in position. He hugged the post to him and carefully curled his arms around the wood. He could feel how slick it was, how the weather and the sand had smoothed it down. Once, probably, it had had bark on it, but that was long since worn away. The post was a little bent, but the kink was too high up for him to make use of. He had to get hold of it around his belt or a little below to bring his powerful back and leg muscles into play. Nobody was going to lift the post and that part of the roof with just arm muscles.
He set himself, feeling for his grip. He could feel his heart beating. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what he was going to do. He tightened his hands and then his arms around the post, pulling it to him, to his chest, locking it solid. Slowly he began to lift. He could feel the post start to come, feel it part with the dirt. He strained harder and harder, his teeth gritted, his eyes closed, the sweat popping out on his forehead. Then, just as he thought the post was about to come up some more, his hands began to slip. Frantically he hugged the post harder and harder, desperately trying to force it to rise.
Then, all of a sudden, he gave out. He collapsed to his knees, panting, his breath coming in gasps. For a long few moments he stayed that way. Finally he straightened up and sat down heavily. He looked up at the underside of the roof. It appeared to him that the top of the post had moved slightly from its centered position on the end beam.
He didn’t know what that meant, but at least something had happened besides him almost ruining his back.
He stayed down on the ground, studying the post, studying the roof, trying to think of some way to get a piece of chain through a solid piece of wood. He even eyed the matches Shaw had left him, wondering if he could somehow set the wood framework on fire and burn the thing down. But the roofing was tin and the boards of the framework were too far apart to burn. If the roof had been shingled with wood shakes, he wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment.
Finally he looked at the chair Shaw had been sitting in and then up at the roof. The front edge of the roof was low. He’d noticed, going and coming under it, that he’d had to duck his head when he was wearing his hat. He stood up and looked at a beam running from the wall to the front edge of the roof. It looked to be a two-by-six plank. It was the beam the top of the post was abutted against. When he stood up, it was only some six to eight inches over his head. He glanced again at the chair, which he reckoned to be about thirty-four or thirty-six inches high at the seat. It was, he thought, worth a try.
He sat down again, and then lay down and wiggled and squirmed on his back toward the chair, until he could just reach one of the legs with the toes of his stocking foot. He curled his big toe around the leg, and then slowly and carefully dragged it toward him. The chair came until he could get his whole foot behind the leg, and he gave a jerk and the chair came flying to him.
Slowly he worked his way back up to a sitting position, and then circled the post until he was out from under the roof. He pulled the chair up until the seat was just touching the post on the cabin side.
He worked his way back around and, with some difficulty, picked up his blanket, folded it, and then refolded it and then folded it again until it was a good pad some six inches thick. With both hands he carefully placed it over his right shoulder and across his neck. It would accomplish two things; it would give him some added height and it would serve as a pad between his shoulder and back and the hard two-by-six.
Before he did anything else, he sat down in the chair and carefully drew his boot back on his right foot. The extra two inches in height might make the difference.
Now was the test, and if it didn’t work he didn’t know what he was going to do. He stood up and put one boot on the edge of the chair.
It was a cane-bottomed chair, so he couldn’t use the middle. But the back and the frame were made out of the same tough mountain cedar as the post, and he figured it would stand the strain. Holding on to the post with both hands, he positioned his right foot on the right-hand edge of the chair and slowly stepped up, putting his left boot on the other side of the seat. He was moving cautiously so as not to dislodge the blanket over his shoulder.
As he stood up slowly he felt his back and shoulder come into contact with the roof beam with his body still not straight. He calculated that, if he could and if the chair didn’t break, he ought to be able to raise the roof at least two or three inches. If he had the strength.
But at least he’d be using his biggest muscles, in his back and in his legs.
He gave himself a moment to get positioned, feeling around for the most comfortable position for his shoulder against the beam. He moved his boots around, trying to get them as near the legs as possible. He figured he had about one try. The chair could break and give way, he could hurt himself trying to lift such a load, or the nails in the roof could give. If any of those events happened he was finished.
When he was ready, he took hold of the post with both his hands, bent his knees as he slowly straightened his body, and made firm contact with the beam across his shoulder and the top of his back. He closed his eyes and concentrated all his attention into straightening his legs. If the roof cleared the post by a fraction of an inch he would whip his hands up and pull the chain through the opening.
He put a strain on his legs, letting it gradually run up his body to his shoulder. Nothing moved. It felt like he was pushing against solid rock. He willed his legs to push harder. And then harder still.
He heard the chair creak alarmingly. Still there was no movement. He could feel the sweat pop out all over his face. His teeth were gritted so hard they must surely crack. He could feel the blood rushing to his face. Still he pushed harder. The chair gave an agonizing shriek as if it were being tortured. His feet felt as if they were going flat in his boots.
The roof moved.
It was very slight, but he had felt it give a little. He summoned every last desperate ounce of strength he had. The roof moved slightly more. His eyes were squinted so that he couldn’t quite see the separation between the post and the beam. With a last gasp he surged upwards against the roof in a desperate attempt to be free.
He suddenly felt pressure against the chain. The post was starting to fall outwards. If he didn’t quickly get his hands up and pull the chain through, the post would fall outward but stay hung against his chain, and then, for added trouble, the roof would fall on him as he tried to get down.
With his body starting to fail, with his legs trembling, with his neck and back screaming with pain, he made one swift, desperate move, through some kind of opening. He couldn’t see it. His eyes felt as if they were filled with blood. And then part of the chair broke with a loud crack and the next thing Longarm knew he was falling backwards. As he fell he saw the porch roof following him. He tried, desperately, in midair, to turn so that he wouldn’t land full on his back. But then he hit; the breath jolted out of his lungs as he landed hard. Before he went unconscious as his head hit the hard dirt of the porch floor, he had a view of the porch roof continuing to descend, threatening to drop a ton of wood and tin and nails and dust on top of his aching, challenged body.