“Whether we ought to go down to him or not. He may be waiting for us with a gun, hoping to get us into range so he can take a pop at us.”
“We’re in range now, as far as that goes,” declared Bob, glancing at the barograph which gave their height. “We were up farther than this when we were hit before.”
“That’s so,” assented Jerry. “I didn’t think about that. He would have shot some time ago if that were his game. Well, we’ll take a chance.”
Nearer and nearer the aeroplane settled toward the great flat rock, on which the lone figure was now running to and fro. His clothes flapped in the breeze, as though in tatters and rags. He appeared greatly excited, and there was no question now but that he was frantically beckoning to the boys to come to him.
“Who in the world is it?” murmured Jerry, trying to peer through the floor window, but not being able to get a good view because of his position at the wheel.
“He doesn’t look like a cowboy,” said Bob.
“Then he can’t be one of the rustlers,” observed Ned. “For they’re all cowboys—of a sort.”
“He looks like a tramp, as nearly as I can make out,” suggested Jerry.
“Maybe a grub-staked miner who’s lost his way,” came from Bob. “This is sure enough a lonesome place,” and he looked around the desolate valley of which the lone figure seemed to be the only occupant. Nor was there a habitation of even the most humble sort to be seen.
“Who is he, and what does he want?” murmured Jerry over and over again, as he manipulated the wheel and levers.