For once in his life, at least, Donald McKay was disappointed.
He was tolerably confident of intercepting the two Klamaths, and with this end in view, turned into a corridor which he thought would eventually lead him to the passage which the twain traversed. He had spent many hours in the lava-caves, and deemed himself thoroughly acquainted with the tortuous, subterranean passages. But the best of hunters err at times, and McKay was not an exception. He walked a long time before he halted, and then it was against a wall, whose smooth surface, feeling like glass, proclaimed its scoriac composition.
The corridor’s end had been reached.
For several minutes the chief stood in the gloom without speaking. He felt the walls of the narrow chamber into which he had stalked, and then gave himself up to reflection.
He cursed himself for allowing the Klamaths to escape. He could not prevent them from reaching Jack now, nor could he see how he had been led to the spot where he stood.
When a hunter gets lost in a place perfectly familiar to him, it galls his very heart, and generally throws him into a fit of anger.
This was the effect it produced upon Donald McKay, at no time a very impassionate man, and in audible tones he upbraided himself for a lack of caution.
But suddenly, between breaths, he paused, for a suspicious noise had saluted his practiced ear. The sound, whatever it might be, was not repeated, and this fact fastened itself upon the mind of the ranger.
“I’ll find out what it means!” he murmured, with determination. “If it’s an Indian, I’ll fix him. I’ve got to stay here till another night, for you don’t catch Don McKay crawling from these beds during the day.”
He moved slowly toward the entrance to the chamber, and then paused again. Then, after a minute, he moved down the dark corridor, feeling the wall on either side, until he discovered an opening on the left.