“That’s enough,” said Harry, turning from the bloated carcass to his prize. “Some strong medicine has killed even a doctor,” and with this he left the cave.
He depended in a great measure on the guidance of his band, for eyes could not avail aught in the cimmerian gloom and at last he paused beside a narrow torrent that pushed its way over many a rugged rock.
Overhead the stars shone with all the beautiful luster of planets, and a fresh, cool night-breeze fanned the faces of the twain.
“I must cross this infernal river,” murmured the Indian, suddenly turning his face up-stream. “And only a short distance up here I can cross on a natural bridge made for devils—for the spirits of the Modoc’s evil band.”
He took two steps forward when he suddenly halted, and grew into a statue on the shore.
One hand covered ’Reesa’s lips, the other the hilt of a knife.
Something had dropped into the water from above—a lava pebble; but who had loosened it?
He cast his eyes up at the stars, but they had been blotted out of existence, at least to his orbs of vision.
Somebody was squeezing his person through the hole in the basaltic ceiling!
There was no doubt of this.