Suddenly he paused. He had heard something—something like a smothered cry breaking through the low growling of the stamps. What was it?
He bent his head and listened intently. Two or three minutes passed. The sound was not repeated, and he laid it to his imagination, or to some prowling coyote off in the hills.
He had no sooner started on again, however, before the muffled cry once more struck on his ears. This time there was no mistake. It was a human voice that had given the cry, and it seemed like a call for help.
Locating the spot from which it apparently came, Frank started at a run to investigate the cause. Before he had taken a dozen steps he heard the cry more distinctly, and felt positive that some one was in distress and calling for aid.
Sure of the location of it, by then, he darted into a chaparral that lay directly in front of him.
CHAPTER XVIII.
TRACKING TROUBLE.
Merriwell dashed into the chaparral like a whirlwind and beat about in the bushes trying to discover where the person was who needed help. His hunt was vain. Several times he called aloud, from various parts of the chaparral, but without getting any response.
“This beats the deuce!” he muttered, at last, withdrawing from the bushes and throwing a puzzled look about him into the dark. “What the mischief is going on? It can’t be that I imagined I heard a cry for help. If I didn’t, why can’t I find somebody or something to account for it?”
He was greatly disturbed by his failure to locate the source of that alarm. Finally he gave up, and started to regain the road that led down the slope and in among the mine buildings. Scarcely had he turned, however, when that cry in the night once more smote upon his ears.