Then he slid back to the bowlder, sat down on it, swung off on the stunted tree, and came down the rope as easily as though it had been a ladder.
“You wanted to show off,” jeered Clancy, “and I guess you made out to do it. Now take that piece of rope from your waist and let’s look at it.”
Silently Merriwell untied the section of rope and handed it to Clancy. The latter took it in his hands, examined it, and looked up, startled.
“Well, what do you think?” Merriwell asked.
“It didn’t break, Chip.”
“No.”
“It was cut.”
“Yes,” nodded Merriwell. “The strands of hemp were severed with a sharp instrument of some kind. It was a clean stroke that separated Darrel’s lifeline from the paloverde, Clan.”
“What scoundrel——”
“Keep your shirt on, Red,” broke in Frank. “At this stage of the game there’s no use guessing about who did it or why it was done. We can suppose that somebody crept into the greasewood, watched Darrel as he lowered himself, and then struck the rope with the edge of a knife, or a hatchet. The rope would have cut easily. The loop was drawn taut against the paloverde by Darrel’s weight, and——”