Then to him:  “All right old boy, come ahead, and you may do the speaking after you land.  Come ahead—­you’re near the top.”

Again the toiling climber resumed his labor, and he was within a foot or two of the opening.  One more hitch and he would emerge into the moonlight.

“Come old fellow, give me your hand,” he added; “you’ve had pretty hard work.”

Just then the bronzed face of an Apache Indian, smeared with paint and contorted with eager passion, slowly rose in the moonlight.  The exhausted warrior, feeling that the critical moment was at hand, when all depended upon prompt and decisive work, made furious efforts to clamber out of the cavern before the lad who held the key of the situation could prevent.

Although Fred had contemplated this issue, and had prepared for it, yet he had become so thoroughly imbued with the belief that it was Mickey O’Rooney who was toiling upward that he was almost entirely thrown off his guard.  Because of this, the cunning Apache would have secured his foothold and clambered out upon the daring lad, but for one thing.  He had done, tremendous work in climbing a rope for such a distance, and his strength was nearly gone when he reached the open air.

Before he could reap the reward of all this labor, Fred recovered.  Whipping out his revolver as before, he shoved it directly into his face, and said:  “You ain’t wanted here, and you’d better leave mighty quick!”

The warrior made a clutch at the weapon so close to him, but his exhaustion caused a miscalculation, and he failed altogether.  He was supporting himself at this moment by one hand, and he acted as if the single effort to secure the pistol was to decide the whole thing.  He failed in that, and gave up.

Instead of letting go and going to the bottom in one plunge, he began sliding downward, his head vanishing from sight almost as suddenly as if the lasso had been cut.  It is generally easier to go down than up hill, and the work of twenty minutes was undone in a twinkling.  A rattling descendo, and the Apache was down the rope again, standing at the bottom of the cave, and Fred was again master of the situation.

“Goodness!” exclaimed the lad, when he realized this gratifying state of affairs, “I had no idea that that was an Indian; but I ought to have suspected it when I called to him and he didn’t make any answer.  That stops that little sort of thing; but I don’t know when Mickey is going to get a chance at the rope.”

The lad was disheartened by this great disappointment, for it looked very much as if the redskins would guard all approaches to the lower end of the lasso, and his friend be shut out from all participation in the chance that he was so confident was placed at his disposal.

“I don’t know what they can do with the rope,” thought the lad, as he carefully took it in hand, “but then it’s no use to them, and I may as well keep it out of their reach while I can.”