But it was a moment too late, for the old man had vanished in the passage.
With a cry of rage the sheriff leaped into the cave. At the same moment the Parson, who had been gazing about him in consternation, gasping and striving to recover his wits, sprang forward in pursuit.
“He’ll get out!” he shouted. “There’s an entrance out there!”
The sheriff was at his heels as they bounded through the narrow tunnel. On, on they dashed! Rapid footsteps ahead urged them forward. The sheriff in his haste leaped past the half-blinded cadet and plunged on ahead to the end of the passage. There he stopped in dismay. The entrance was in front of him. The cool breeze from the mountain was blowing upon him. But the game had escaped, without sound or trail to follow!
All thought of pursuit was driven from his head an instant later.
For from a dark corner in the passage came a low groan. The sheriff thought it was his prisoner, wounded; he made a dash for the spot. Then he started back with a cry of amazement.
Meanwhile the Parson, filled with a vague dread, had dashed down the tunnel and picked up the torch the sheriff had dropped. He rushed back and gazed about him. His worst fears were confirmed. It was Indian.
Stanard sprang toward him with a cry of alarm. But already the sheriff was on his knees beside the unfortunate lad. Indian was a sight to behold.
Evidently the maniac had taken the first thing that came to hand to make his captive safe. This was a pile of rags that had lain in the corner. Indian was wrapped and tied in them almost from his head to his feet. They were stuffed into his mouth, too, and he was bound so tight that he could not move a muscle.
The sheriff cut him loose—and the dazed lad staggered to his feet. He remained thus barely long enough to see where he was. Then a sudden idea flashed over him and he turned and dashed away toward the main room of the cave. The sheriff and the Parson followed at his heels.