Retracing their steps, they came to the point Dick had meant.  It looked bad enough, in all conscience, but from the rocks there jutted halfway down a dwarf oak that had found rooting in a narrow cleft.

The young man worked his body over the edge, secured a foothold in some tiny scarp that broke the smoothness of the face, and groped, with one hand and then the other, for some hold that would do to brace his weight.  He found one, lowered himself gingerly, and tested another foothold in a little bunch of dry moss.

“All right.  My rifle, Steve.”

It was handed down.  At that precise moment there came to them the sound of approaching voices.

“Your gun, Steve!  Quick.  Now, then, over you come.  That’s right—­no, the other hand—­your foot goes there—­easy, now.”

They stood together on a three-inch ledge, their heels projecting over space.  Nor had they reached this precarious safety any too soon, for already their pursuers were passing along the rim above.

One of them stopped on the edge, scarce eight feet above them.

“They must have come this way,” he said to a companion.  “But I expect they’re hitting the trail about a mile from here.”

“Si, Pablo.  Can you feed me a cigareet?” the other asked.

The men below, scarce daring to breathe, waited, while the matches glimmered and the cigarettes puffed to a glow.  Every instant they anticipated discovery; and they were in such a position that, if it came, neither of them could use his weapons.  For they were cramped against the wall with their rifles by their sides, so bound by the situation that to have lifted them to aim would have been impossible.

“The American—­he has escaped us this time,” one of them said as they moved off.

“Maldito, the devil has given him wings to fly away,” replied Pablo.

After the sound of their footsteps had died, Gordon resumed his descent.  He reached the stunted oak in safety, and was again joined by his friend.

“Looks like we’re caught here, Steve.  There ain’t a sign of a foothold below,” the younger man whispered.

“Mebbe the branches of that tree will bend over.”

“We’ll have to try it, anyhow.  If it breaks with me, I’ll get to the bottom, just the same.  Here goes.”

Catching hold of the branches, he swung down and groped with his feet for a resting-place.

“Nothing doing, Steve.”

“What blamed luck!”

“Hold on!  Here’s a cleft, away over to the right.  Let me get a hold on that gun to steady me.  That’s all right.  The rest’s easy.  I’ll give you a hand across—­that’s right.  Now we’re there.”

At the very foot of the cliff an unexplainable accident occurred.  Dick’s rifle went off with noise enough to wake the seven sleepers.

“Come on, Steve.  We got to get out of here,” he called to his partner, and began to run down the hill toward their cabin.