“I opine that there’s as many scalps around here as horns,” he said; “but we must take care we don’t lose our own in looking for ’em.”
“Have you seen any sign?” asked Percy Vere.
“Not yet; but I think we’re coming to it.”
They pressed forward, and as they skirted the cliff they bore upward toward its crest. Its aspect was entirely different upon this side, its slope being gradual, and the trees and bushes growing very near to the top.
The way was still difficult. Huge bowlders, some covered with moss and making little openings in the woods, and others thickly studded with fir trees, protruding like green spikes, continually obstructed their way.
“Great Cæsar!” cried Glyndon, pausing to wipe the perspiration from his brow. “This is tough work. I don’t see any signs of a trail yet—and there must be one to the top of the cliff, if I could only find it.”
Percy Cute, who was the last in the line of march, for he had a natural tendency for loitering, had diverged a little to one side when this halt was made and, though the hunter and Percy Vere were further up the cliff than he was, he had gone more to the right, in a forward direction, and suddenly came upon a kind of open way in the wood.
“Look here!” he called out. “Here’s better traveling; come this way.”
Glyndon and Percy Vere joined him.
“Why, it looks like a path—a path leading to the summit of the cliff!” cried Percy.