“What hole?” Patricia’s voice panted. “I lost—the cat! Where are you, Gary?”
Gary found himself clutching the rock with both hands. His knife had slid to the floor of the crosscut. His knees were weak, so weak that they kept buckling under him, letting him down so that he must pull himself up again to the opening with his hands. It was cruel, he thought, to keep thinking he heard Patricia coming to him.
“Gary!—Oh, Monty Girard! Gary is up here somewhere! I heard him! He say’s he’s in a hole! Oh, hurry up, why can’t you?”
Gary swallowed hard. That must be Pat, he thought dizzily. Bossing Monty Girard around—it must be Pat!
“This way, Pat! Be careful of the slide—I’m down underground—in a hole. If Monty’s coming, better wait for him. I’m afraid you’ll fall. That slide’s darn treacherous.” Gary’s eyes were blazing, his whole body was shaking as if he had a chill. But he was trying his best to hold himself steady, to be sensible and to play the game. The thought flashed into his mind of men lost on the desert, who rushed crazily toward demon-painted mirages, babbling rapturously at the false vision. If this were a trick of his tortured imagination—well, let it be so. He would meet realization when it came. But now——
He could hear Patricia panting and slipping in the loose rocks no more than a few yards away. He shouted to her, imploring her to be careful—to wait for Monty—to come to him—he did not know what it was he was saying. He caught himself babbling and stopped abruptly.
After all, it was Monty who first peered down past the bowlder and into the opening, where Gary’s face showed white and staring-eyed, but with the unquenchable grin. Monty gasped the name of his Maker and turned as white as a living man may become. Then he turned; Gary saw him put up his arms. Saw two summer-shod feet with silk-clad ankles above the low shoes; saw the flicker of a skirt—and then Patricia was sitting on the bowlder where Faith had so often kept him company. Patricia cried out at sight of him and looked as if she were going to faint.
“Count of Monte Cristo—in his dungeon in the Bastille—before he did the high dive and made his get-away,” Gary cackled flippantly. “Say, folks, how about a few eats?” Then his white, smiling face with the terrible, brilliant eyes, slid down and down. They heard a slithering kind of fall.
Patricia screamed and screamed again. Monty himself gave a great, man sob before he pulled himself together. He put his arm around Patricia’s shoulder, patting her as he would soothe a child.
“He’s just fainted,” he said, his voice breaking uncertainly. “It’s the shock of seeing us. Can yuh-all stay here while I beat it down to the shack and get some grub? Have yuh-all got the nerve?”