“One—” The relentless voice had begun to count.
“Two—”
Grimly Sergeant Hardy slipped his gun in its holster. “The winner of the opening hand does not always win the game,” he thought, dispassionately.
“I want the mail bag,” the unseen speaker went on. “Put the bag on that rock shelf on the right, and be quick.”
Intently the officer listened to that voice. So carefully did he memorize every inflection in it, he would recognize it immediately, anywhere.
“Keep cool, King. He has the advantage now.” Sergeant Hardy’s voice was low, reassuring, but his eyes, hard, vigilant swept the rocks above him carefully.
“Must I put the mail—”
“Yes, or he’ll blow both of our heads off. He has you covered now.”
“Hurry up there.” Impatiently the voice rang out. The man, in his eagerness, leaned over the jutting rock on which he lay. In that instant Hardy obtained a good look at the face of the man.
It was a young face. Not more than thirty or so, clean-shaven. The features were fine, regular, with well molded chin. The man drew back swiftly as his eyes met the officer’s.