“Oh, I’m no green tenderfoot,” laughed
Willoughby, as he drew his briar-root from his pocket. “And it’s quite a balmy afternoon for October.”
He sat down and propped his back against a moss-grown rock.
“You must not stir from here,” continued Pierre. “Remember I have to find you again.”
“Guess I’ve learned to obey orders. I’m quite comfortable where I am.” And Dick started contentedly smoking.
Pierre, following the little path to which he had drawn Dick’s attention, pushed through the brushwood and disappeared.
Just ten minutes later Pierre Luzon stood on Comanche Point and gazed down the trail leading up from the pass below.
“Zey are coming, zey are coming!” he exclaimed eagerly to himself, with finger outpointed in the direction of the two climbers on foot half way up the ascent. Then he slipped back into the shadow of a clump of stunted pines that grew close to the cliff.
Fifteen minutes or so passed. Then the heads of Ben Thurston and Leach Sharkey showed above the final steep ascent that led directly on to the projecting spur known as Comanche Point. Thurston was breathing hard after the difficult climb.
“Here we are at last,” remarked Sharkey cheerfully, as he glanced around.