“Hullo! That you down there, professor?” Abington swung the lamp toward the sound, moving it three times up and-down, the signal to advance which they had found convenient in old caves and tunnels where a shout might bring down upon their heads a small avalanche of loose rock. “Was that you shooting? You hurt?” “Come on down, Bill,” Abington called. “There’s a path, if you can find it in the dark.” And as an afterthought, he added: “No, I’m not hurt.” Good old Bill, to ask that question with just that demanding note of worry in his voice! Abington remembered what he had been thinking when he pulled and aimed his automatic, and he had the conscience to blush for the thought. Of course Bill was no traitor! His eager, hurried voice betrayed long hours of frantic searching in that maze of narrow gorges that twisted and turned and crisscrossed so bewilderingly. Abington smiled under his beard as he listened to the clattering of small rocks on the hillside beyond the pool. Presently Bill Jonathan’s familiar figure--never had Abington seen a more welcome sight!--came lurching into the light zone, half running, with that little swing of the shoulders that told of strength. “My Lord, professor, I’ve been runnin’ these hills like a rabid kit fox, lookin’ for you!” he panted, laying both hands on Abington’s shoulders and giving him an affectionate shake or two. “Why, you old vinegarroon, I’ve been scared to look off a cliff or into a pot hole for fear I’d see a coyote sneakin’ away from your ornery carcass! Thought sure that gosh-awful thing had got you!” He stopped to breathe. “Who was doing that shootin’? You?” Abington nodded, a bit surprised at the lump in his throat which prevented speech. “Shootin’ at the gosh-awful? You git it?” Bill’s voice dropped to a vengeful whisper as he sent a wholly involuntary glance behind him. “No, Bill, I didn’t. Some one down here took a shot at me and I shot back. He’s lying over here by the cliff.” “Yeah?” Astonishment pulled Bill’s hand off the other’s shoulder. “Who do you reckon-- Was it an officer?” An indefinable change had crept into his voice. “No, I don’t think so. He isn’t dead yet. Come over and take a look. We’ll have to do something--get him into a shelter of some kind. These nights are too chilly for a wounded man to lie out unprotected.” Once more Abington was calm and cool and efficient. He turned and led the way back to the wounded man, Bill Jonathan following at his heels quite as if there had been neither quarrel nor separation to jar them out of the routine of the trail. CHAPTER XII--THE MAN WHO VANISHED Bill got up off his knees, glanced this way and that as though looking for something of which he stood in urgent need, and turned a bleak gaze again upon the huddled figure on the ground.