Cyril raised his gun, but he did not draw trigger, for it was folly to fire quite at random, and he was leaning forward, peering into the darkness, when a faint click made him turn again toward the mouth of the cave, just in time to be driven backward and lose his feet as another of the creatures leaped out and dashed away into the darkness.
Two, and they were not mules, though evidently four-footed creatures. But what could they be? he asked himself, as he recovered his feet and stood with presented piece, his heart throbbing, and his finger on the trigger, ready to fire at the next movement from the cave. They could not be pumas, for the touch he had of the first one’s body was not furry; neither could they be large monkeys, for they would not have smooth bodies, and besides, these creatures were too large.
He was still in doubt, when there was a sound behind him, and as he turned sharply, a husky whisper:
“Don’t fire, my lad. What was that?”
“Did you hear it, Manning?”
“Yes, and had a glint of some one running by me.”
“Some one?”
“Yes. Indian, I think; did you see him?”
Cyril told him of what he had seen, and was just finishing, when there was a faint whisper and a movement of a stone or two as some one hurried up.
“Manning—Cyril—”