“Red Mountain!” gasped the curator, as he and Nicky stared speechless at the fabulous wealth spread out before their eyes. “Pure cinnabar--and Lord knows how many million tons of it! It makes that Mexican deposit look like a thirty-cent Mex. dollar when you want to buy a tin of white man’s tobacco with it! Well, while we’ve got time, the most important thing in the world to do now is to locate that mountain on the map.” The crack of Dwight’s automatic came to their ears as the curator got out his notebook and the mess kit with his surveyor’s compass packed in one of its pans. Dwight and Sadok were already at work, they could hear, and as they opened out the map page a long cane arrow came singing over their shoulders and soared on down the slope. “Gee! They must be getting close up on that side! Make it snappy, sir!” said Nicky, drawing his revolver and laying it on a rock beside him. “We’ll add about three miles to the base line, from the banyan tree to this cone,” said the curator, imperturbably, drawing it in with his pencil. Then he sighted Red Mountain most carefully through the compass bars. “Distance, about seven miles in an air line, I should judge. What do you think, Nick?” Baderoon, to their right, gave a grunt and shot his stout bow. The arrow soared down the slope and into a thick aloe clump on the edge of the jungle. A little black man rose out of it and fell over backward. “Good shot, Baderoon!” commented Nicky, admiringly. There was no better archer, or fighter, either, than their Papuan “black boy!” Nicky squinted across at Red Mountain, shimmering in the distance. “Seven, or nearly eight miles, I should say,” he pronounced, judgmatically. An arrow sprung from a rock about seventy yards down the slope as he spoke. It came nosing up to them and fell just in front. Nicky sighted the spot with his Officer’s Model. “Here’s where I scintillate!” he laughed. “This old six-gun’s at her best at long range. Save your shells, Mr. Baldwin. I’ll get that bird!” Another arrow soared overhead, coming from the west. Then the curator gave a low exclamation. “Look, Nick! There goes another signal fire, far to the south. We’ll have all pygmy land around us in another day!” The revolver barked at that instant, and a puff of dust flew out from the side of the rock behind which a hill man lay concealed. “Scared him to death, anyhow!” joked Nicky, turning to look at the new fire. “We’re surrounded, all right, except on the east, and we can’t hold off a whole army of them,” said the curator. “We’ve got two impossible things to do, as I see it--get in to Red Mountain and bring off some specimens and then make our escape from the country.” “Fat chance!” grunted Nicky, cheerfully, firing his revolver again.