“Other American boy send me,” declared the guard. “He have horses ready. He pay me to help. I am sic’ being outlaw. He gif me drachma ’nough to make me rich. I leaf this countree, lif hones’ some other countree. I help you ’scape. You come now! Quick!”
“Great horn spoon!” breathed the Texan. “My pard has made a move! I knew he would! Oh, he’s a bird, you bet your boots! But I don’t see how he worked the trick of bribing the guard.”
“Don’t be fool!” hissed the man. “No time for waste! Come now!”
He found Brad and thrust a weapon into his hand.
“Perhap’ have fight,” he said.
The Texan doubted no longer, for his fingers gripped the butt of a pistol.
“Come, Cavendish!” he palpitated. “Here is where we prance forth and trust to fortune and the sagacity of Dick Merriwell, the cleverest chap on two legs. You hear me gurgle!”
They followed the stooping, muffled guard. The moment they were outside the mouth of the cave he turned sharply to the right and hastened into the enfolding gloom. They kept at his heels.
They had not gone far when Buckhart espied a prostrate figure on the ground. It seemed like a dead man, and the Texan paused, not a little startled.
“What’s this?” he whispered.