"A clumsy lie—a disgrace even to an idiot like you, Seth Grable. But here's our answer. If you want us, come and take us—if you can," laughed Abel, sinking down in time to avoid several arrows that hurtled near.
Then, once more, all became quiet. The savages remained hidden behind the rocky breastworks. The hermit lay upon the platform, his bow in hand, the bowlder beside him ready to be hurled down the hollow trail in case the enemy should dare another onset. Abel retreated to the side of his loved one, and they conversed earnestly, yet sorrowfully, for the death of their friends pressed heavily upon their hearts.
Grable had spoken no more than the truth when he admitted the position was a strong one. Indeed it appeared impregnable. The hill stood alone in the center of a plain, bare and treeless save at the very summit, and from it the ledge was hidden. For a few yards from the top, the rocks sloped abruptly down; then came a perpendicular descent of full fifty feet, ending in a broad, table-like ledge that overhung the mouth of the hermit's retreat. Only by a swaying rope from above could the ledge be gained, and then, standing in the cave entrance, those below would be hidden. The trail leading up from the plain below was narrow, hollowed out of the rock, barely affording room for one person to ascend at a time. This was the only avenue of approach from that direction.
Truly, it was well said: a strong position.
Slowly the hours rolled by. All was silent save the voices of nature. The savages seemed to have disappeared. The hermit lay upon the rock motionless as though dead. A vacant expression rested upon his face. He was brooding over the past, all-unconscious of the net that was fast closing around him.
Suddenly something whizzed through the air, followed by a double click, sharp and peculiar. A cry broke from the hermit's lips as he rolled over upon his back. The long locks of gray hair were fast darkening with blood. A couple of headless arrows lay beside him; their flinty heads had been shivered to atoms upon the hard rock.
At the cry, Abel Dare sprung to his feet, rifle in hand. He saw the blood—he believed the hermit was dead, so motionless did he lay. But then came a rapid change.
The hermit's arms were uplifted, bending the long bow until the notched shaft touched his ear. Then it was loosed—its swift passage baffling human eyesight.
A cry—a shrill, blood-curdling shriek of mortal agony—came from above. And then a dark form shot headlong down through the air, striking with a sickening thud upon the rocky ledges, crushed into a shapeless mass, bespattering the trio with clotted blood and brains.
Wild and taunting rung out the laugh of the hermit as he sprung to his feet, shaking his weapon at the savages upon the plain. Their cries of rage and hatred caused the rocky mound to echo again. And then a score of arrows and rifle bullets passed the shelf, pattering against the flinty wall beyond. With another laugh, the hermit leaped back unharmed.