Apparently he lay without moving. The brown men were like dead men. But inch by inch he had drawn the rope slack until he was able to unwind it from his wrists. Then by half inches he moved his hands free, slipping one of them from behind him to his side. It seemed to him as though Nature herself had paused to watch and listen. He turned now with his free hand beneath him. Slowly his fingers crept towards his chest, grasped the sheath, freed the blade, and then back to his side once more. He turned to his back, his hand behind him, his fingers grasping the horn handle.
His feet were still bound, but he figured that he could raise himself to a sitting posture and sever these with a single slash at the moment he sprang. But he must be quick––must be strong––must be calm. To this end he stretched himself upon his back and waited. If he were able to kill the first man with a single blow, he felt he would stand more than an equal chance with the two others. He was an adept in the use of the knife.
In a flash he was upright; in another he had cut through the rope on his ankles. He leaped forward, striking deep as his feet touched the earth. The knife sank to the hilt in the brown body. One of the others was reaching for his sword as Stubbs struck home again. But as he drew out his knife, the third was rushing for him with his long sword in his hands. He never reached him. With the skill of long experience, Stubbs threw his knife with the speed of an arrow 271 from a bow. It struck the man just above the heart and he stumbled over his own feet. Stubbs melted into the shadow of the trees.
Once out of sight of the scene of this struggle, he stopped and listened. If this were all of them, there were several things he would get before he returned to the heights. A light breeze rustled the heavy tops above him, but otherwise the world seemed sound asleep. There was not the cracking of a twig––not the movement of a shadow. He ventured back. The three forms, save that they had settled into awkward positions, looked very much as they had a few minutes ago when they had stood between him and freedom. He passed them, stopping to recover his knife, and then moved on to where he had hidden the provisions. He took a rope, a can of beef, some crackers, and a small quantity of coca leaves. Then he went to the spring nearby and soothed his sore throat and mouth with water. He also filled a quart flask which he tied behind him. Returning to the caché, he covered it up again and, placing a roll of the coca leaves beneath his tongue, started on the ascent.
The dawn was just appearing in a flush of pink when he reached the top. A reconnaissance of the rocks around the hut and at the entrance to the crevice convinced him that no guards had been left here. Evidently the Priest had not thought their capture of supreme importance. It was more an act of precaution than anything else.
He felt more refreshed at the top of the peak than 272 he had at the bottom and, wondering at this, it suddenly occurred to him that this was the effect of the coca leaves. He had heard in Bogova that the natives under its influence were able to endure incredible hardships without other nourishment of any kind. He took a larger mouthful. At any rate, they acted as balm upon his tongue and macerated lips. He felt no inclination to rest. Even had he felt fatigue, his anxiety over Wilson would have forbidden further delay.
He fastened one end of his rope securely about a point of rock and then sat down to study the map once more. He realized that he would need the help of every detail of these directions. Already he had committed them to memory,––he was calmer than Wilson about it and so had remembered them better,––but he went over them once more. There was more than treasure at stake this time.
He lowered himself into the crevice which had swallowed up his companion, with almost a sense of relief at being for the moment beyond the power of the Priest. He was tempted to cut the rope behind him, but a brief examination convinced him that this would be foolhardy. He still had sufficient left for an emergency––in case the rope was drawn up from above. Two men should stand a better chance of getting out of here than would a single man.
At the end of the first ten feet along the narrow path Stubbs felt much less confident than at the start that Wilson was alive. And he worked his way along the 273 dangerous course with increasing fear. It was with a gasp of relief that he finally saw the opening ahead of him which marked the end. He paused to shout. He received no reply. He called his comrade’s name again. The dark walls about him caught his voice and imprisoned it.