"Where are you, Del Norte?" cried one of the imprisoned men, in a gasping, frightened voice when the roar and rumble of the landslide had ceased, and they began to realize their terrible position.
"I am here," answered the other. "What can we do, Ridgeway?"
"Do? Why, we can die like dogs! There is nothing else for it. You're sure there is no other way out of this cave?"
"No other way. Perhaps we can dig out."
"Not in a thousand years! What have we to dig with—our bare hands?"
"I have my knife—the knife with which I was going to cut out the tongue of that cursed gringo, Merriwell! Why didn't I do it?"
"You know why. Red Ben went back on us, may the fiends take the redskin cur! He helped Merriwell get away with the girl. When Sears tried to follow the Indian shot him, and he's buried out there somewhere beneath that landslide. But he's better off than we are, for he is dead, and we must die! I can't die, Del Norte! I'm not ready to die! I'm not fit to die!"
Then the poor wretch began to weep and pray in the utmost anguish of soul.
Del Norte seemed cowed. He had burned many matches in order that by their faint glow he might examine the great mass of earth and stone that was piled on and crushed into the place that had once been the entrance to the cave. He had seen that a mighty bowlder was blocking the greater part of the former entrance. That stone alone would be enough to imprison them hopelessly, but the sounds of the landslide which had made the mountain roar and shake had satisfied him that the bowlder was held in place by a mass of earth and timber through which, with the best implements, it would be impossible to dig in a week.
"Merriwell has triumphed!" muttered the Mexican. "He will have no more trouble from me."