Fifty yards below her Monty swore to himself. Insanity was leading her, in Monty’s opinion; he wished fervently that he had left her in town. But since she was here, and crazily climbing the bluff at the mocking behest of that phantom Voice, Monty would have to follow and look after her. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE “HE’S NEARLY STARVED,” SAID PATRICIA “Damn you, Faith, where’s my breakfast?” Gary stopped scraping the granite and peered balefully out at the cat, that had just hopped down mewing upon the bowlder in front of him. “I hate to crab--but I saved nearly a whole candle just on the strength of my belief in you. You might have brought me another bird, anyway. As it is, I’ve a darned good mind to eat _you_! You’re nice and fat--I sure as heck ought to know, the way I fed you and pampered you. Come here, darn you--I could eat you raw!” He reached out a long arm, his hand spread like a claw and made a grab at Faith. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, in a grin that may or may not have been as malevolent as it looked. “_Gary!_ Oh, _Gary!_” Patricia’s voice had a sobbing gasp in it, and it sounded faint and far away. The hand and arm hung motionless in the crevice. Gary’s nostrils quivered, his eyebrows drew together. Then he reached again for the cat. “I’m hearing things again--and this time I can’t kid myself I’m asleep and dreaming. Faith, it’s up to you. Either you go rustle me some grub like you did yesterday--only, for heck’s sake, make it a rabbit this time--or I’ll just have to eat you! A man’s got to live as long as he can make one breath pull the next one after it. That’s the game, Faith----” “_Gary!_ Oh, _Gary_!” Patricia’s voice was closer now; at least it sounded so. “Hello, Pat!” Gary called hoarsely, before caution warned him that it must be his fancy and no human voice. “Gary! Where are you? Oh, _Gary!_” She was gasping for breath. Gary could hear her plainly now. “Literally and figuratively, I’m in a hole!” he cried recklessly, mocking the intensity of his desire that the voice should be real. “_What_ hole?” Patricia’s voice panted. “I lost--the cat! Where are you, Gary?” Gary found himself clutching the rock with both hands. His knife had slid to the floor of the crosscut. His knees were weak, so weak that they kept buckling under him, letting him down so that he must pull himself up again to the opening with his hands. It was cruel, he thought, to keep thinking he heard Patricia coming to him. “_Gary!_--Oh, Monty Girard! Gary _is_ up here somewhere! I heard him! He say’s he’s in a hole! Oh, hurry up, why can’t you?” Gary swallowed hard. That must be Pat, he thought dizzily. Bossing Monty Girard around--it _must_ be Pat!