“Nothing here, cap’n.”
It was Boxer the scout who spoke. For two hours he, Ben, and Luke Striker had been examining the trail running along the cliff. They could find footprints without number, but no trace of Larry.
“He must have gone somewhere,” replied Ben, who could not bring himself to give up the hunt. “He wasn’t spirited away. I’ve a good mind to make a hunt at the bottom of the cliff.”
“As you will, cap’n. But, remember, this air side o’ the valley is full of rebs, and if they catch us—”
“We must be on our guard, Boxer.”
“I’ve got my eyes wide open,” put in Luke. “I reckon on it as how I can see as far as any on ’em, too.”
The walk to the cliff had not been accomplished without difficulty. Twice had they come close to 293 running into the Filipino pickets, and once Luke had been almost certain they were being followed, but the alarm proved false. A night had been spent in the jungle, and at a point within half a mile of where Larry lay senseless under the big tree!
The hunt had revealed to the party the series of rough steps mentioned in the last chapter, and down these they now went and continued their search at the base of the cliff.
“What’s this?” came from the old sailor, presently, and he pointed to the broken sapling hanging in the branches of the big tree. With the sapling was a shred of a garment, fluttering in the breeze like a signal of distress.
A close examination caused them to reach a conclusion which was, as we already know, true; namely, that Larry had come down with the sapling and landed in the big tree.