“Yer ain’t looked inside yet,” said the master. “Neat little bunk fer a lay-over, I reckon. Ony kinder close. ’Tain’t fer layin’ low I likes it ’cause I like it best outside, ’n we’re as safe here. Ony in case o’ sumthin’ gone wrong we got a hole ter shoot from. With me inside o’ that nobody’d ever git inside of three hundred feet from it. I could turn this here hill inter a graveyard, I sure reckon. Yer hungry?” “Supposin’ any one was to find this here place?” the other asked. “You said ’bout sumthin’ goin’ wrong maybe.” “Well, he wouldn’ hev the trouble o’ walkin’ back,” said the tall man grimly. Just then Westy, who had scarce dared to breathe, took advantage of the stirring of the strangers to glance toward his friends in the cleft. The little camping site looked very cosy and inviting. But even as he looked his blood ran cold and he was struck with panic terror. For standing at the brink of the rivulet was Warde Hollister, his hands curved into a funnel around his mouth, ready to call aloud to him. Westy held his breath. His heart thumped. Every nerve was tense. Then he heard the screeching of one of those great birds flying toward the crags in the twilight. He waited, cold with terror. . . . CHAPTER XIII WARDE AND ED “Don’t call to him,” said Ed. “As long as we haven’t got our fire started yet, what’s the use calling? He likes to be alone, sometimes; I know Westy all right. Don’t call.” It was this consideration on the part of Ed for the mood and nature of his friend that saved Westy at the moment. And incidentally it saved Warde and Ed themselves from discovery. Westy knew his peril, but they did not know theirs. Ed stood at the brink of the stream fishing, his partly unraveled sweater tied around his waist, giving a Spanish touch to his appearance. It was a funny habit of his to wear clothes the wrong way. He was always springing some ludicrous effect by freakish arrangement of his apparel. Warde was gathering sticks for their fire. “Here’s another killie,” said Ed. “Small, but nifty. That makes seven so far, and about ’steen of these other kind, whatever they are. Don’t call till you have to. Westy had this little lonely stroll coming to him ever since Mr. Wilde West sprung that stuff on us. He likes to communicate with Nature, or commune or commute or whatever you call it. He’s imagining he’s hundreds and hundreds of miles off now—I bet he is. He’s thinking what a punk scout he is. He likes to kid himself; let him alone, don’t call.” “There’s one thing I want to say to you,” said Warde, “now we’re alone. I guess you never quarreled with a fellow, did you?” “Here’s another killie—a little one,” said Ed.