The silence up on the cliff was broken by exulting yells, and he could hear them stringing along now above the precipice, searching for the whereabouts of the curator’s party below. If they would only keep on without him!
Another “Coo-eee!” came from under the cliff. “Nicky! Are you alive, old scout?” came the yell of Dwight’s voice.
He dared not call back. The hill men were too keen, and not easily fooled. He lay quiet, listening. Presently the crackle of falling stones and more yells and cries along the cliff told that their party had been located. They were probably retreating along under the cliff as fast as possible. Nicky turned and crept down the slope on his stomach, looking back to see that the rock still hid him from sight of the cliff top above. Then he worked over behind a small bush and peered up through it. Whether there were hill men watching the slope, concealed among the rocks above, he could not tell, but there probably were. The whole north side of the volcano was smoking with the jungle fire and it crept down until the thickets on the verge of the precipice were red with burning trees. He noted with relief that it barred the passage of their pursuers that way, or at least it necessitated a detour, and he hoped that their party had gotten away.
Whether to risk exposing himself now was the question. He was alone in the heart of wildest New Guinea, and it was necessary to rejoin their party and make a speed back toward the boat, for undoubtedly the hill men knew of a defile down the precipice somewhere which would let them out into no-man’s land. Also thunderheads were sweeping up from the south, and it would not be an hour before the afternoon storm would be due.
Well, one thing was certain, he ought to let his people know that he was still alive before they got out of hearing. Nicky drew his revolver and fired two shots quick with it. A whoop came from up on the mountain. They were watching the slope still! Then two shots from Dwight’s automatic barked, muffled, from over the shoulder of the cone. It sounded as if from the jungle. They would either wait for him there or circle, the boy reasoned. Probably the latter, and he could rejoin them down below at the foot of the slope. And now was the time to run, for he could hear the hill men above calling for their companions and presently the whole tribe would be back.
Nicky rose and jumped down the slope. He got a glimpse over his shoulder of two tiny black fellows dancing and hurling rocks impotently, and then gave all his attention to getting down, for the slide was steeper than a log chute. Swiftly the jungle seemed to rise up to meet him, and with a final bound he reached the friendly shelter of the trees and darted out of sight.
Then, for the first time, his aching, bruised leg forced itself into consciousness and he began to limp. Directing shots between him and Dwight gave them his location, and then calls and shouts brought them together.
Dwight came running through the jungle, grinning with joy.
“Gee! old man, we’d given you up for lost!” he yelled, capering about and punching Nicky with delight. “Got all the plunder with you, too, haven’t you!”
“Sure!” gurgled Nicky, happily. “That’s what this war’s all about! Where’s Mr. Baldwin?”