Creedon had as far as possible destroyed all signs when raking out the fire of a recent encampment, but an experienced and alert eye can detect the truth despite these little tricks.

Desmond saw the Indians:  they were a hard-looking lot, the worst specimens he had ever beheld, and they were assassins at sight, as he determined.  He was secure from observation, but it was necessary to warn his comrades, who were in different crevices, and at that moment Creedon actually snored.  He was in the crevice adjoining the one where Desmond had taken refuge.

The Indians were too far away to overhear the snore, but it was possible the man might awake and step forth; then, as Desmond feared, the fight would commence.  He did not desire a fight; he might think the chances would be with his party, as only two of the Indians had rifles, but then if even one of their own party were kicked over it would be a sad disaster.

The lad meditated some little time and studied the conditions.  He crawled into his crevice, and, lo, he saw a lateral breakaway.  He might gain Creedon’s berth, as he called it, without chancing an outside steal.  Fortune favored him; Creedon’s crevice was one of several rents in the rock, and he managed to reach the sleeper’s foot, and he cautiously touched it, fearing at the moment that Creedon in his surprise might make an outcry or an inquiry in a loud tone, but here he learned a lesson in woodcraft.  Creedon did not make an outcry; he awoke and cautiously investigated, and soon discovered that Desmond had touched him and was seeking to communicate with him.  He demanded in a whisper: 

“What is it, lad?”

“There are Indians in the gulch.”

“Aha! where?”

“Down where we were camped last night.”

“You keep low and I will take a peep.”

Desmond could afford to let Creedon take a peep.  The woodsman did peep and took in the situation, and he said: 

“You are smaller than I am; does the rent where you are run to the berth where Brooks is sleeping?”

“It may; I will find out and go slow; we don’t want a fight if we can help it, but we’ve got the dead bulge on those redskins if we have to fight.”

CHAPTER III.

Creedon’s knowledge of woodcraft—­the REDMEN’S
departure—­A long trail—­on the tramp—­the
strangest refuge in the world—­A bridge of
risks.

Desmond crawled forward beyond the rent where Creedon had lodged, and he found the space much wider as he progressed, and soon gained the opening where the rent terminated in which Brooks had lain all night.  Desmond glanced in, and, lo, Brooks was inside awake, and had already discovered the presence of the Indians, and so far they were all right.