"Jack! Jack!"
But there was no answer. The Indian had said nothing, but Bob could see that he was shaking as with the palsy.
"Where's that pass down?" he shouted. "Maybe he's not dead."
The question seemed to galvanize the Indian to action and, leaving the dogs, he led the way a little to the right where a more gentle descent offered.
"White boy be careful," the Indian cautioned as Bob started down, but he had no thought but to get to the bottom as quickly as possible.
It was very steep even here and several times he lost his footing and fell, once turning over three or four times before recovering himself. Only one thought was in his mind—Jack was in danger, perhaps dead. It seemed to the frantic boy that ages passed before he reached the bottom, but in reality it was only a few seconds. The last twenty feet or so was the steepest and, in his rush, he tripped and rolled to the bottom. But he was not hurt and, quickly picking himself up, he started as fast as he could go for the place where Jack had gone over. A projection cut off his view until he was within a few feet of the spot.
"O, God, don't let him be dead," he prayed as he hurried along.
With his heart in his mouth he rounded the turn and the next instant a low cry of joy burst from his lips. There, not twenty feet away sat Jack rubbing his eyes as though he had just woke up. At Bob's cry he turned.
"Why didn't you come down by the short route?" he grinned.
"Thank God," Bob breathed as he hastened to Jack's side. "Jack, boy, I—I thought you were killed," he sobbed.