  Toma poked out his head from behind a gray pile of rocks and looked down. Far below him, at the bottom of the ravine, he beheld a sight which caused his hands to clinch involuntarily and his heart to quicken a beat or two in righteous indignation. In the Indian encampment, there was a very noticeable flurry and bustle of excitement as a small party, headed by an exceedingly atrocious individual, made its way into camp. With the exception of the leader, Toma had never seen any of them before. Also, with the exception of the leader, every man was weighted down with a load of what—even at that distance—Toma recognized immediately as being the supplies he, Dick and Sandy had discarded at the beginning of their hasty retreat. Even the pony, which brought up the procession, was the self same pack-horse he had ridden into the river that morning. Their supplies and their horse were gone, but it was not this loss alone which had been the direct cause of Toma’s anger. The young guide flashed one more look of resentment in the direction of the encampment, then turned quickly and made his way back to Dick and Sandy, who were crouched within a natural rock barricade, about one hundred yards distant. “What did you find out?” Sandy demanded as Toma rejoined them. “Indians get our supply an’ pony,” came the prompt answer. “Well, that was to be expected,” said Dick. “It can’t be helped now. Did you find out anything else?” “Yes.” “What was it?” “Toma see scar-face Indian.” “What!” exclaimed Dick and Sandy in one voice. “Scar-face Indian him there all right. Make himself big fellow. What you think about that?” “It’s an outrage!” stormed Dick. “No wonder we’re having trouble. So Henderson is at the bottom of this after all.” “If scar-face Indian here, Henderson not very far away,” speculated Toma. “Old Scar-Face must have discovered the mine before this if it’s located in the ravine,” Sandy suddenly spoke up. “It doesn’t matter much now where the mine is,” Dick stated despondently. “We can’t do anything anyway. Our cause is pretty nearly hopeless.” “Uncle Walter is coming,” Sandy reminded him. “Don’t forget that.” “Two or three weeks from now. We may all be dead before then.” “We can defend ourselves here for a day or two,” said Sandy. “In the meantime maybe something will turn up.” “What about food and water?” “Dick!” exclaimed Sandy, moving over and placing one arm affectionately about his chum, “You’re not your usual self. It’s not like you to give up so easily.” Dick received the gentle rebuke with calm indifference. He stared soberly out across the desolate, sun-filled space without speaking. “Indians make night attack mebbe,” Toma suddenly broke the silence. “Let ’em come,” growled Dick. “We’ll be ready. All I hope is that Scar-Face leads the attacking party and that I can get a shot at him.” “They’ll probably be in no hurry about that attack,” Sandy sagely remarked. “They know we’re up here somewhere and practically helpless. It would be a whole lot simpler and easier to starve us out.” “That sounds reasonable,” said Dick. “We’re trapped and they know it.” “I tell you something,” Toma rose and began pacing back and forth across the narrow, confining space within the barricade. “We have good chance now to make ’em Indians all look foolish. Place over there”—pointing—“where look down camp. You, me, Sandy go over there an’ start shoot rifles. Kill ’em plenty men in very few minutes. We drive ’em all bad fellows out of ravine.” Dick and Sandy stared at each other aghast. “What you say?” inquired Toma. “Never!” shuddered Dick. “Murder!” shivered Sandy. “Why not?” the tone was plaintive. “Toma not understand.” “You poor devil,” Sandy commenced grimly, but checked himself. “What quarrel have we with those people down there, Toma? It’s not their fault—it’s Henderson’s and the scar-face Indian’s.” “All right, I go shoot him—that fellow.” Dick’s sudden laugh relieved the tension. “We didn’t come out here to kill anyone,” Sandy attempted to explain. “We came out here to find the mine. It’s wrong to take any human life.” Toma shrugged his shoulders. “You mean you sit here an’ no shoot if attack come?” he asked in amazement. “You sit here an’ let bad fellow kill you without so much raise up your rifle?” “If I’m cornered, I’ll fight, of course. But not until then.” The guide shook his head and subsided into a puzzled silence. “What we do then?” he asked presently. “What I’d like to do,” Dick cut in sharply, “is to run away—get out of this mess somehow.” “How we swim river?” Toma wanted to know. “No chance build raft.” “What about our own raft?” Sandy wondered. “Do you suppose they’ve overlooked that?” “I’ll give them more credit for brains than that,” was Dick’s opinion. “I don’t think we ought to consider it.” He paused for a moment, his brow wrinkling in thought. “The only other way of escape is across the ravine, and I’m willing to bet they have sentries posted every hundred yards.” “Very probably,” Sandy agreed, “but even at that there’s a possibility that we could make it. After dark there might be a chance. It’s better than staying here.” “In our present hopeless position,” said Dick calmly, “I’ll try anything.” “What about you, Toma?” The young Indian drew himself up proudly. “I go too,” he stated simply. “Well, then, it’s decided.” Sandy arose and gazed out across the rough, broken strip of land to the south, conscious of a sinking feeling within. To attempt to escape by way of the ravine was, as he well knew, a desperate hazard. Their chance of getting through safely was slim indeed—with every advantage in favor of their ruthless enemy. “It’s the only thing we can do,” he declared, turning again toward his two companions and speaking in a low, trembling voice. Dick evaded Sandy’s direct gaze and he, too, looked out upon that weird, desolate view. The afternoon sun was very bright and the rocks, gray and white and brown, were like blinding mirrors to his eyes. Somewhere, deep down within his breast, he could feel the beginning of a sob—a choking, helpless feeling difficult to express. “My throat’s dry,” said Sandy, “and I’d like to have a drink.” “I go for water,” volunteered Toma. Dick wheeled about quickly. “No! No! Don’t be a fool, Toma. We’ll have to stand it. You can’t risk your life now.” In dull, aching monotony, the afternoon passed. The sun slipped down through a bank of clouds to a flaming northwestern sky. Innumerable shadows, spreading grotesquely about them, grew dark, then velvet-black, merging finally into one complete inky blot. “There aren’t a hundred stars out tonight,” Dick whispered to his two delighted companions. “Conditions couldn’t be better.” “It has clouded over,” said Sandy. “Thank God for that.” Out of the west had come a cool, moist breeze. If it rained, so much the better. Since their departure from Fort Good Faith, three weeks previous, the days and nights had succeeded each other with no hint of rain, a seemingly endless procession of sunlit and starlit hours. “We ought to start pretty soon,” said Dick, as he paced uneasily, restlessly about. “I’m ready any time you fellows are,” Sandy replied. Ten minutes passed. The wind seemed stronger now and was blowing more from the south. Unable longer to endure the suspense, Toma plucked at Dick’s arm. “Come,” he whispered. Slowly, cautiously, three figures worked their way up and over the rough barricade of rocks and headed for the ravine. “Keep close together,” cautioned Dick in a low voice. “Whatever happens, we mustn’t become separated.” In a few minutes they had reached the edge of the ravine and prepared for the perilous descent. They had to feel their way now. Every step forward was tedious, conscious effort. The moisture-laden wind, breathing over the warm rocks, had produced a wet, slippery surface under foot. Careful as the three boys were, one of them slipped or fell occasionally, producing a sound which caused them to pause in consternation in the belief that the noise must have carried to the sentries below. About half way down, a most disconcerting thing occurred. In attempting to recover his balance, Sandy dropped his rifle. It slid out of reach as he made a wild lunge for it, and a moment latter dropped twenty feet to the ledge below. The loud metallic clatter resulting, broke across the silence—so it seemed to Sandy—with a force and noise as terrifying as that made by a derailed express train dropping over a cliff. The three boys stood huddled together in speechless dismay. Had they been heard? Would the sentries know now for a certainty that an effort was being made to escape? Sandy recovered his rifle and, following a whispered consultation, it was decided to make their way along the slope of the ravine before descending further. They had succeeded in covering a distance of perhaps three hundred yards, when they paused again—this time in absolute terror. Up along the ridge, not far from their previous barricade, there arose a medley of demoniacal shrieks and yells that would easily have struck fear in the bravest heart. So suddenly and unexpectedly had it come, that the three boys, white-faced and trembling, shrank back against the side of the ledge too frightened even to move. |
|
