As he advanced below the cliffs he carefully scanned the foot of the precipitous heights for what he dreaded to find; for Alvarez had begun to fear that Jack had made a daring attempt to escape and summon help and had met death in a fearful fall from the rocky crags. “The boy would have been mad to attempt such a climb,” he muttered, as he moved along, “why, not even a mountain goat could find a foothold up yonder. It is impossible that he should have tried such a thing. It would have been sheer madness. And yet—and yet when it comes to such things the Gringoes are assuredly mad. They will dare anything it seems.” Musing thus the Mexican traversed the greater part of the valley, pondering deeply over the possible fate of his young friend. “It is a thing without explanation that he could have climbed even a few feet up those cliffs,” ran the burden of his thoughts; “yet if he has not, why do I not see a trace of him here below?” “_Caramba!_ Can it be that he has slipped on a lofty crag and is suspended high above the valley, injured, perhaps dying, and beyond reach of human aid?” On and on trudged the Mexican, growing more and more alarmed every instant. Suddenly, as he cast his eye up toward the summit of a lofty precipice, his attention was caught by an object moving slowly up its surface, like a fly on a high wall. The Mexican gazed steadily at it. He believed that it was an eagle or condor hovering about its nest in the dizzy heights, but still something odd about the moving object arrested and gripped his attention irresistibly. “No, it is not an eagle,” he muttered, “but, then, what is it? No quadruped could climb that cliff. What, then, can it be?” The sun was sinking low over the western wall of the cañon and the valley itself was beginning to be shrouded in purple shadow. But at that great height the light was still bright. Suddenly the moving object emerged from a patch of shade cast by an overhanging rock. Simultaneously the Mexican almost sprang into the air under the shock of his amazement. He crossed himself and then his lips moved. “By the Saints! It’s Jack Merrill!” he cried, in a hollow voice. For an instant he stood like a thing of wood or stone, every muscle rigid in terrible suspense. And all the time that tiny speck on the cliff face was moving slowly and painfully upward. Clasping his hands the Mexican stood riveted to the spot. Then his dry lips began to move. “The saints aid him! The brave boy is working his way to the top of the cliff. He has neared its summit. But can he win it? And, see, there are the steps he has cut in the lower cliff face. It must be that he is working his way upward still by those means. Santa Maria! What courage! “I dare not call out to him. At that fearful height one backward look might cause him to lose his hold and plunge downward like a stone. Oh, if I could only help, only do something to aid him! But, no, I must stand here helpless, unable to move hand or foot.