Frank had
tumbled, fallen, rolled down the slope, taking no precautions, fired
only with anxiety to prevent Morales from radioing while there was yet
time.
The Mexican also, in his anxiety to reach the ranch and give the
warning, had cast caution aside.
Across the outer room dashed Frank, scarcely noting the trussed-up
figure of Tom Bodine flung in one corner. No hangings obscured the
brightly-lighted interior of the inner cave, for they had been torn
down the night before to form a pallet.
Morales sat with his back turned, the headpiece clamped over his ears.
Frank darted forward and brought the butt of the revolver crashing
down on the Mexican's head. Without a sound, without a gurgle or a
cry, Morales swayed in the chair, then slumped to one side and slid to
the floor.
With nervous haste Frank pulled the headpiece from the other and
clamped it on his head. At once a crackle of Spanish words filled his
ears. He could make nothing of them. What little knowledge of Spanish
he once had possessed was not at his command now.
"Jack, Bob," he cried, pulling the microphone toward him. "This is
Frank. Do you hear me? Frank."
The chattering ceased as if by magic.
"Frank? What in the world?"
Glory be! It was Jack's voice in reply.
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