He moved with the utmost circumspection toward the spot, being able to locate it by means of the moonlit opening overhead, and when he was near it he halted and listened.

“I don’t obsarve that any one is loafing about here, getting in the way of honest folks.”

Just then he ran plump against an Apache, whom he did not suspect was so near him.

The redskin uttered a grunt of anger, no doubt suspecting that it was one of his own friends.

As quick as lightning the Irishman drew back and struck a blow that stretched the warrior senseless.

“I’ll tache ye to be grunting around here when a gintleman runs again ye.  Ye ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Mickey had already strapped his rifle to his back, and, groping about, he felt the end of the lasso dangling in front of his face.  The same instant he grasped it and began the ascent.

CHAPTER X.

“Here we are again!”

Fred Munson, having been deceived once by the Apache climbing up the rope, was not to be caught again in the same way.  When he became certain that a second person was coming up, he grasped his pistol again, and held himself in readiness to “repel boarders,” the very instant they appeared.

It soon became evident that this second person, whoever he was, had a serious time in climbing up the rope.  He frequently paused as if resting, and this fact led the lad to feel more hopeful than ever that it was his old friend drawing near.

When it became apparent that he was near the top, the curiosity of Fred became so great that he drew himself forward, and, peering down the black throat of the cave, asked, in a whisper: 

“I say, Mickey, is that you?  Speak, if it is, or give a little whistle.”

“Be the powers, but I’m so tired I’m spaachless, wid not even the strength to let out a whistle.”

This established the identity of the climber beyond all question, and the words were hardly uttered when the familiar face of the Irishman appeared.

He was exceedingly tired, and the lad reached his hand down to assist him out.  It was at this juncture that the Apache, who had run against the fist of Mickey O’Rooney, recovered, and seeing his foe in the act of vanishing, gave a whoop of alarm to his companions, caught up his rifle and fired away.  The hasty aim alone prevented a fatal result, the bullet clipping the clothing of the Irishman.

“Fire away, ye spalpeens, for all the good it may do ye,” called out the Irishman, who at this moment clambered out of range and sank down upon the ground.

“Begorrah, I’m as tired as Jim O’Shaughnessey after his friendly match with his wife,” gasped Mickey, speaking shortly and rapidly, as best he could, while he leaned over upon his elbow, until he could regain his strength and wind.

It required but a short time, when he reached his hand to the lad, and shook it for the third or fourth time, smiling at the same time in his old jolly way, as he rose rather unsteadily upon his pins.