But there was another and more ominous sound, or rather burst of sounds, at this, for a chorus of savage yells arose from the top of the cliff above him, and he knew that the Indians must have exposed themselves once more, for a couple of shots rang out from far below, raising strange echoes from the end of the valley, and once more there was the terrible silence in which Chris crouched hopelessly, for more than ever now he felt the crux in which he was placed—to attempt to move was to fall or expose himself to the arrows waiting for him on the top of the cliff.
The next minute the black cloud of hopelessness seemed to be cut by the voice which came up out of the depths—the voice that told him his friends were watching and waiting—as he felt must be the case—to fire at the first Indian who showed himself above the top of the cliff.
“Chris!” So low and distant, but so clear. “Chris!”
“Ahoy! Coo-ee!” shouted the boy downward, and from between his hands.
This time there was no answering yell, and Chris listened to the words that came up, sending a thrill of joy through him, but at the same time a strange tremor of fear.
“Can you hear?” came now.
“Yes.”
“Then—listen,” came with very slow emphasis. “You—must—creep—gully—lower—self—down.”
Chris was silent as he sat staring down as it seemed into nothing but the clear air, for the stone to which he had clung projected from the cliff-face, just as the parts above him overhung as if about to fall.
“Hear?” came from below.