Then he knew that his first guess was probably correct. Spanish Joe, in making his way along over the rocks, had in some way managed to catch his foot in a crack, and was unable to get it out again. Perhaps the more he struggled the firmer it became fastened. And, considering the surroundings, his fright could hardly be wondered at.
So Frank crept up alongside the prisoner of the rock.
"It's my leg, Nick," cried the man, eagerly. "I can't get it loose and I've twisted and pulled till it's near jerked out of the socket. See if ye can't do somethin'. Every time she shakes, that rock up there just starts to drop down on me! If it comes I'll be smashed."
Frank knew Spanish Joe. The man from across the Rio Grande had worked on the Circle Ranch for many months, until he was discharged after being caught in the suspicious business of conveying information to the cattle rustlers.
"Wait 'till I strike a match, so I can see what things look like," Frank said.
And as the match suddenly flared up the dark-faced Spanish-American stared with astonishment into the countenance of the one who had come in answer to his frantic calls for assistance.
"You, Senor Frank?" he exclaimed.
"Sure," replied the rancher's son, as he bent over to examine the way in which the prisoner's foot had become caught.
Although the match only shone for a few seconds, Frank's quick eyes had sized up the situation.
"How is it, Senor Frank; can you get me out, camerado?" asked Joe, with a quiver in his voice.