Frank darted off down the slope.
Morales was seated at the telephone as Frank entered the cave, captured revolver in his hand. His own weapon hung forgotten at his side, so little used was he to the handling of small arms. Frank had tumbled, fallen, rolled down the slope, taking no precautions, fired only with anxiety to prevent Morales from radioing while there was yet time.
The Mexican also, in his anxiety to reach the ranch and give the warning, had cast caution aside.
Across the outer room dashed Frank, scarcely noting the trussed-up figure of Tom Bodine flung in one corner. No hangings obscured the brightly-lighted interior of the inner cave, for they had been torn down the night before to form a pallet.
Morales sat with his back turned, the headpiece clamped over his ears.
Frank darted forward and brought the butt of the revolver crashing down on the Mexican's head. Without a sound, without a gurgle or a cry, Morales swayed in the chair, then slumped to one side and slid to the floor.
With nervous haste Frank pulled the headpiece from the other and clamped it on his head. At once a crackle of Spanish words filled his ears. He could make nothing of them. What little knowledge of Spanish he once had possessed was not at his command now.
"Jack, Bob," he cried, pulling the microphone toward him. "This is Frank. Do you hear me? Frank."
The chattering ceased as if by magic.
"Frank? What in the world?"