“Huh!” grunted the older of the two Indians. He uttered a low laugh of contempt which showed plainer than words that he thought Curlie was bluffing.
Curlie’s hand went to his side. He lifted a transmitter to his lips, then touched a button at his belt.
“Are you there, McGregor?” He pronounced the words distinctly.
It was one of those periods of time in which one lives a year in the space of a moment, a moment tense with terrible possibilities.
Into Curlie’s mind there flashed a score of questions. Was McGregor there? Would he respond? Would the Indians be frightened to the point of giving him up if he did? Was the slender aerial still dangling in air and still working? These and many others sped through his active brain as breathlessly he waited.
Then, suddenly, with a fervently whispered, “Thank God!” he caught McGregor’s gruff voice:
“Aye, here! Let me have ’em. Put ’em on.”
The older Indian was so surprised by Curlie’s actions that the receiver was on his head before he knew it.
The next instant his mouth sagged open, his eyes bulged out, his knees scarcely supported him. He was hearing McGregor’s voice. He did not know how nor why, but he heard. It was enough. He was afraid.
For three minutes they all stood there spell-bound. Then apparently the voice ceased.