A FATAL MOVE
As Westy peered around the tree he beheld something which at first
shocked him, then relieved his nervous tension somewhat. Just outside
the entrance of the cave was a face upturned toward the sky. At first he
saw nothing but this face framed in darkness; it seemed to have no body
connected with it. He could not see it well enough to distinguish the
features, but he could make out that it bore a flowing mustache. Nor
could he see whether the eyes were open, but he assumed they were not,
for the posture of the head was certainly not that of one on guard.
At first Westy thought that the man might be looking up into the tree
ready to shoot, not knowing that he, Westy, had descended. He had enough
presence of mind to look about for anything that glistened, but could
discover no betraying glint of a pistol.
Strangely enough, the sight of this upturned face, grim and ghastly
because only hazily revealed in the blackness, reassured him. It was a
jarring sight, but better than uncertainty.
Cautiously, testing every move, he crept a few inches closer. The face
seemed to move, yet still lay stark, staring like a dead man at the
starless heaven. It was only the faint shadow of a fluttering twig
crossing that motionless face.
Westy crept a few inches closer. And then, suddenly, he realized that
Bloodhound Pete _was on guard_. He was on guard in his sleep. He was not
sleeping with one eye open. But he was on guard with both eyes closed.
He was sleeping in the little hole which formed the entrance of the
cave. His body, as well as Westy could make out, was mostly within the
dank little retreat; only his head and shoulders were outside. It would
have been impossible to pass by him, in or out.
So small was the opening that dangling tentacles of root hung low above
his face like loathsome snakes, and as they swayed in the breeze caused
tiny shadows to play upon his motionless countenance, producing a
ghostly and startling effect. It seemed evident that his companion was a
prisoner within; he could not have escaped except across the prone body
of his comrade. Thus Bloodhound Pete guarded, even in his sleep, the
accomplice whose services had probably been necessary to him. He seemed
to Westy to have an uncanny power.
The boy wondered whether this little cell was a favorite resort of the
outlaw because exit from it could be so conveniently and unsuspectingly
embarrassed. Certainly Bloodhound Pete, having reached his chosen lair,
had very little fear of danger from without. He had reckoned on the
country, but he had not reckoned on the tree.
Westy approached now near enough to touch that motionless face. He was
all a-tremble. Yet his proximity had at least this advantage. He could
not be shot down unawares—the thing he had dreaded. If the man moved he
would know it. A man cannot snatch his senses so quickly from sleep as
to be able to shoot instantaneously. He would have at least a few
seconds of grace.
He did not dare to move now; he paused and looked about. Oh, if his
heart would only stop thumping; it sounded like an engine to him. Cold
drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead. His hands were icy
cold. He swallowed nervously and it seemed that this would arouse echoes
from the surrounding hills. He remembered the odd phenomenon that
standing close to a sleeping person often causes the slumberer to open
his eyes. The very atmosphere of a human presence may arouse one.
Westy knew that he must not stand there courting such perils. Yet he
knew not what to do next. Certainly he could not enter the cave nor
rummage in this creature’s pockets. He could make one move nearer; it
would avail him nothing, but he could do it. Possibly he might discover
a way—something——
He lifted his left hand from the ground, moving it forward, and at the
same time his right knee was instinctively raised by a sort of nervous
correspondence. He was ready to move forward. So far as he was
concerned, he had confidence now; he knew he would not make a sound. He
could settle hand or knee upon the earth with the silence of death. But
the breeze was blowing the foliage and now and then crackling a little
twig near by. Westy paused. It seemed as if an electrical current were
coursing through his lifted arm.
Far off somewhere in the untrodden fastnesses of the mighty range was
that moaning he had heard before. For a second, two, three seconds, he
paused, tense, trying to control his panting breaths. Then slowly he
advanced his hand and lowered it upon—something soft and warm. . . .
Panic seized him with the realization that he had miscalculated in the
darkness and was pressing his hand upon that dark, outstretched form.