“But it didn’t work with Tyrus,” said Cavendish. “The old man smelled a rat, you know. He pretended to think it all right, and he promised that Flavia should prepare for the journey. But he whisked her away and hid her from me. I found her, and then he had me arrested on some sort of a complaint. I was locked up, you understand, and I’d be there now only for Sir Augustus, who used his influence to get me out. That’s how I became tangled up with him, don’t you know. And now here we are. What the deuce are we going to do?”
Brad found Cavendish’s hand in the darkness and gave it a hearty grip.
“Even if I am in a right tight predicament myself,” he said, “I’m sure glad my pard and I concluded, after leaving Sir Augustus, to try to find out what had happened to Flavia and you. Cavendish, we may all go over the range into the unknown country beyond, but the jig’s not up, by a long shot.”
The Texan lowered his voice to a whisper.
“Listen: My pard and I both got into this valley, though I was the only one seen. If those cutthroats hadn’t been miserable bad shots, I’d been peppered full of holes. They shot all round me. Then something tripped me as I was scooting, and they had me before I could recover. Here I am; but Dick Merriwell is somewhere out in the valley, and I’ll wager every hoof on the Bar Z that we hear from him before morning. You want to hold yourself ready to move a whole lot lively when he takes a hand in the game, for he plays his cards to win and makes no false moves. You hear me chirp!”
[CHAPTER XXX.—OUT OF THE TOILS.]
The mists of early night had dissolved in the valleys. Above the hills the pale stars glittered as the night wore on. Donatus, the Suliote, still reclined by the fire, his head pillowed on the saddle. Over him a faithful follower had spread a blanket to protect him from the cool night air.
The fire sank lower. Even Maro, with his heart of fire, had at last fallen into slumber.
The guard who had passed before the mouth of the cave, now unreached by the firelight, seemed grown weary, for he made his beat with less frequence and regularity. Once he disappeared for such a length of time that Buckhart was tempted, for all of the danger of being shot, to peer forth. But before the Texan brought himself to the point of risking the peril the guard reappeared, a blanket wrapped about him, pacing with slow step across the opening.
Flavia slept, her head pillowed on Cavendish’s lap. The Englishman had removed his coat and spread it over her.