He ran the car under the shelter of the overhanging rocks, and moved to the edge of the flat surface to see what was beyond.
He had to walk about a hundred feet. Then he drew back instinctively. He was on the edge of a sheer descent of about five hundred feet. The road broke off as sharply as if it had been cut down with a gigantic cheese knife.
“Bad place to drive a car, Chick!” observed Patsy, who had come along behind him. “I’d keep well in against the wall, if I were you.”
“That’s what I have done, Patsy,” was the short reply. “See that your gun is all right.”
“Of course it’s all right,” answered Patsy. “But, why the reminder?”
“Look!”
Chick had dropped to one knee behind one of the huge bowlders that were thickly strewn about, and Patsy, taking the hint, dropped also, as he followed the direction of his comrade’s pointing finger.
“I can’t see anything but a steep hill and something black at the top,” declared Patsy.
Chick drew from a pocket the powerful field glass belonging to the motor car, and which he had taken out of its case when he left the machine.
Through the glass he took a long survey of the hill and what Patsy had called “something black.”