CHAPTER VIII.

Fishing for A prize.

It is no easy task, even for a trained athlete, to climb forty or fifty feet of rope.  The majority of men, if put to the test of making their way out of that cave by shinning up the long lariat suspended from the opening above, would have failed altogether.

Remembering how well his hearing had served him under somewhat similar circumstances, young Munson, watching so anxiously for the appearance of his friend, pressed his ear against the tough, untanned rope and listened.  He could hear the scraping of the hands and the friction of the limbs against the rope, working steadily and in such a manner as to show that the man was succeeding well in the excelsior business and was sure to reach the top in time, if his strength held out.

“I guess that’s Mickey O’Rooney climbing up,” muttered the boy, “and yet I can’t tell till I get a sight of him.  It may be an Apache, and I’d better get ready, for I don’t mean to have any of them creeping up on me.”

Fred did not wish to cut the rope, as that would have ended the operations, so he concluded to resort to his weapon.  There were two or three chambers of the revolver undischarged and he did not believe that it would be necessary to use them.  The simple presentation of the muzzle had accomplished his purpose some hours before, and there was little doubt that it would do the same thing again.

The sky was absolutely free from clouds, and the moon, near her full, shed such a light over the scene that the lad almost dreaded the result.

While all remained profoundly dark in the cave, at the moment the man reached the surface and was brought into relief against the sky beyond, he would be distinctly visible to any one who might be looking upward, and half a dozen rifles pointed and fired at that juncture could scarcely fail of fatal results.  The lad’s misgivings increased as the man neared the top.  When he again applied his ear to the lariat, he could understand that the fellow was working hard, and could only be a few feet below him.

“There’s nothing like being ready,” he concluded, as he straightened up, and, rising to his feet, stood, pistol in hand, ready for the issue.

He stepped back several feet, where his vision was entirely unobstructed.

“If it’s an Indian, he won’t have a chance of showing anything more than his head, and if he don’t take that out of the way in a hurry, I’ll let a ray of moonlight through it.”

He stood thus, as rigid as a statue, fully appreciating the difficulties of his position and the fatal consequences of allowing himself to be outwitted.

“Mickey, is that you?” he asked, in a cautions whisper, a moment later.

As he asked the question he noticed that work upon the rope instantly ceased.

“It’s Mickey,” he said to himself, “but he doesn’t think it safe to speak.”