“Yes, but that scar-faced Indian is apt to have some one with him, and if they jump down on our heads from one of the ledges in this cave, we’ll have small chance of getting away.”
“Well, we’ve got to hope for the best and be prepared to fight with all there is in us,” Dick responded grimly, gripping his rifle, a 45.70 Winchester, and starting into the cavern.
Tensely Sandy followed, the factor taking up the rear with the precious map stuffed under his heavy bearskin overcoat.
Slowly they progressed back along the dark passage, scanning the shadows ahead and overhead for a sign of whatever had made the noise. A hundred feet from the chamber, a pair of eyes glowed out of the darkness. Dick raised his rifle, aiming at the gleaming points ahead. His sights came into line squarely and he fired.
The crack of his rifle was almost deafening.
“I got him!” shouted Dick, hurrying forward. “A bear!”
Sandy and his uncle had joined Dick over his kill. The large black body quivered under the candle light.
“I hated to do it,” Dick was sorry. “Poor old fellow!”
“He was probably wintering here somewhere,” Sandy’s uncle put in. “I wonder if he made that rock fall which we heard.”
“Probably did,” said Sandy.