Coyote Pete lay perfectly still. He hardly dared to breathe, and heartily wished that he could suspend his heart-action.
“Caramba! He was here an instant ago!” exclaimed Ramon, glaring about, “where is the accursed Gringo now?”
“Possibly struck by a bullet,” put in Canfield, the red-headed man, who, having aided Pete to escape, was now compelled to assume a bloodthirsty role once more.
“Not likely. Perhaps he dropped over the edge of the cliff and has escaped,” put in another of the outlaw band who had just ridden up.
“But that would be suicide. The gully is deep and he would be dashed to pieces in its depths,” struck in another.
“Hold on!” shouted Ramon suddenly, “I have it!”
“What, you see him?” the query came from a dozen throats.
“No, but I can guess where he is.”
“Where?”
“Here!” Ramon tapped the log with his foot, while Coyote Pete fairly perspired in rivers.