He
stepped into the crevice through which Blenham had dragged Terry.
"There's a split in the rocks here," called Barbee. "He went this way."
"Watch out for him!" warned Steve, now on the ledge close to the boy.
"Let me go ahead!"
Barbee laughed.
"Long ago I told him I'd get him!"
But Blenham was waiting in a little rock-rimmed hollow. He shot from
the hip, using a heavy revolver. Barbee stood a moment looking
foolishly at the sky as he slowly leaned back against the rock. Then
he lurched and fell, twisting, spinning so that he lay half in the
fissure, his rifle clattering to the ledge outside, his body falling so
that his head and shoulders were across the rifle.
Steve stepped over Barbee's twitching body, alert, every nerve taut,
his finger crooked to the trigger of his rifle. But again Blenham had
withdrawn. In the little rudely circular hollow from which Blenham had
fired point-blank at Yellow Barbee was Terry's hat, trodden underfoot.
Again it was as though the mountain had swallowed the man and the girl
he had taken with him.
But a moment later Steve saw and understood. Not ten steps from where
he stood was the mouth of a cave. Into it Blenham had retreated. In
there was Blenham now; Blenham and Terry with him. And the way, for
the moment at least, was securely blocked. Evidently here was a
hangout known before, previously employed.
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