"Whip-poor-will-l-l," Slim whistled again, and thrice, but each time there was nothing but the grim silence for reply.
"Tom," he whispered into Rawle's ear, gently shaking the wounded man. "Tom, can you get up? I'll help you back. We can make it somehow together."
But here again only the weak breathing of his comrade testified to their plight.
"Better to take the one chance that's left us," muttered Slim to himself, as he pulled Rawle's revolver from under him, to make sure that it was fully loaded. "Yes," he continued, "it's better to risk discovery than this fellow's life."
He took his own automatic from its holster and carefully examined it also.
Then, with a revolver in either hand, pointing them into the air and with fourteen shots at his disposal, he began firing.
Bang-Bang-Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang-Bang-Bang!
The shots rang out on the night air like a series of interrupted explosions. But to the trained ears of the other men of the party—Lieutenant Mackinson, Joe, Jerry and Frank Hoskins—two miles away, they carried their call for help.
It was the S O S of the international code, but in a new sort of wireless—by pistol shots!
Trembling for the results that his desperate action might bring upon them, Slim waited, bending now and then over the unconscious form of Tom Rawle.