One of them stopped on the edge, scarce eight feet above them.
"They must have come this way," he said to a companion. "But I expect they're hitting the trail about a mile from here."
"Si, Pablo. Can you feed me a cigareet?" the other asked.
The men below, scarce daring to breathe, waited, while the matches glimmered and the cigarettes puffed to a glow. Every instant they anticipated discovery; and they were in such a position that, if it came, neither of them could use his weapons. For they were cramped against the wall with their rifles by their sides, so bound by the situation that to have lifted them to aim would have been impossible.
"The American—he has escaped us this time," one of them said as they moved off.
"Maldito, the devil has given him wings to fly away," replied Pablo.
After the sound of their footsteps had died, Gordon resumed his descent. He reached the stunted oak in safety, and was again joined by his friend.
"Looks like we're caught here, Steve. There ain't a sign of a foothold below," the younger man whispered.
"Mebbe the branches of that tree will bend over."
"We'll have to try it, anyhow. If it breaks with me, I'll get to the bottom, just the same. Here goes."