As Westy peered around the tree he beheld something which at first shocked him, then relieved his nervous tension somewhat. Just outside the entrance of the cave was a face upturned toward the sky. At first he saw nothing but this face framed in darkness; it seemed to have no body connected with it. He could not see it well enough to distinguish the features, but he could make out that it bore a flowing mustache. Nor could he see whether the eyes were open, but he assumed they were not, for the posture of the head was certainly not that of one on guard.

At first Westy thought that the man might be looking up into the tree ready to shoot, not knowing that he, Westy, had descended. He had enough presence of mind to look about for anything that glistened, but could discover no betraying glint of a pistol.

Strangely enough, the sight of this upturned face, grim and ghastly because only hazily revealed in the blackness, reassured him. It was a jarring sight, but better than uncertainty.

Cautiously, testing every move, he crept a few inches closer. The face seemed to move, yet still lay stark, staring like a dead man at the starless heaven. It was only the faint shadow of a fluttering twig crossing that motionless face.

Westy crept a few inches closer. And then, suddenly, he realized that Bloodhound Pete was on guard. He was on guard in his sleep. He was not sleeping with one eye open. But he was on guard with both eyes closed. He was sleeping in the little hole which formed the entrance of the cave. His body, as well as Westy could make out, was mostly within the dank little retreat; only his head and shoulders were outside. It would have been impossible to pass by him, in or out.

So small was the opening that dangling tentacles of root hung low above his face like loathsome snakes, and as they swayed in the breeze caused tiny shadows to play upon his motionless countenance, producing a ghostly and startling effect. It seemed evident that his companion was a prisoner within; he could not have escaped except across the prone body of his comrade. Thus Bloodhound Pete guarded, even in his sleep, the accomplice whose services had probably been necessary to him. He seemed to Westy to have an uncanny power.

The boy wondered whether this little cell was a favorite resort of the outlaw because exit from it could be so conveniently and unsuspectingly embarrassed. Certainly Bloodhound Pete, having reached his chosen lair, had very little fear of danger from without. He had reckoned on the country, but he had not reckoned on the tree.

Westy approached now near enough to touch that motionless face. He was all a-tremble. Yet his proximity had at least this advantage. He could not be shot down unawares—the thing he had dreaded. If the man moved he would know it. A man cannot snatch his senses so quickly from sleep as to be able to shoot instantaneously. He would have at least a few seconds of grace.

He did not dare to move now; he paused and looked about. Oh, if his heart would only stop thumping; it sounded like an engine to him. Cold drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead. His hands were icy cold. He swallowed nervously and it seemed that this would arouse echoes from the surrounding hills. He remembered the odd phenomenon that standing close to a sleeping person often causes the slumberer to open his eyes. The very atmosphere of a human presence may arouse one.

Westy knew that he must not stand there courting such perils. Yet he knew not what to do next. Certainly he could not enter the cave nor rummage in this creature’s pockets. He could make one move nearer; it would avail him nothing, but he could do it. Possibly he might discover a way—something——

He lifted his left hand from the ground, moving it forward, and at the same time his right knee was instinctively raised by a sort of nervous correspondence. He was ready to move forward. So far as he was concerned, he had confidence now; he knew he would not make a sound. He could settle hand or knee upon the earth with the silence of death. But the breeze was blowing the foliage and now and then crackling a little twig near by. Westy paused. It seemed as if an electrical current were coursing through his lifted arm.

Far off somewhere in the untrodden fastnesses of the mighty range was that moaning he had heard before. For a second, two, three seconds, he paused, tense, trying to control his panting breaths. Then slowly he advanced his hand and lowered it upon—something soft and warm. . . .

Panic seized him with the realization that he had miscalculated in the darkness and was pressing his hand upon that dark, outstretched form.