Scarcely had he straightened up when his hat flew from his head and the ping of a rifle sounded from the opposite ridge. Scott fell from the rock in a heap.
Hopwood ran to him. “Did he get you?” he asked anxiously.
Scott felt his head and there was blood on his fingers. “Must have grazed me,” he said, “but it does not amount to anything.”
Hopwood examined it and found a half-inch cut in his scalp. “That’s what those partridges did for us,” Hopwood said. “I am sorry he saw us but it can’t be helped now. Now, we’ll have to get out of here.”
Scott scrambled to his feet and recovered his punctured hat. He examined it with a little shudder and started up the ridge.
“Not that way,” Hopwood exclaimed. “That’s the way he will come.”
So Hopwood led the way once more across a brush-filled draw on to the next ridge. Up this they made their way very cautiously, taking good care to keep out of sight. They were almost up to the main ridge when Hopwood hid behind a ledge of rock and motioned Scott to do the same.
“We can see the other ridge from here,” he whispered, “and we better wait till we see Foster go down. We might meet him up there on the ridge.”
After what seemed like an age they caught a glimpse of Foster making his way cautiously down the opposite ridge. He had seen Scott fall from the ledge and was on his way down to make sure of him. When he was out of sight they crawled out of their hiding place and struck for the main ridge.
“I wonder what aroused his suspicion,” Hopwood said.