Underfoot was debris, rocky soil worn away
from the cliffs throughout the ages, here and there fallen slivers and
scale of rock. Shadows moved somberly, misshapen and grotesque, like
brooding spirits of evil stirring in nightmare.
Kendric threw on a little more fuel and, to make doubly sure, went
outside again, standing in the open beyond the fringe of bushes.
"Never a flicker gets through," he announced when he returned. "A man
would have to come close enough to hear the wood crackle or smell the
smoke to ever guess we had a fire going. And even the smoke is taken
care of." They tilted back their heads to see how it crept lazing up
and up until it was dissipated among the lofty shadows. "If we can
manage water and food," he went on, "I think we would be safe here a
year. The lazy devils taking Zoraida's pay can't make it up this way
on horseback, and they're not going to climb on foot up every steep bit
of mountainside hereabouts, looking for us."
"A year?" gasped Betty.
"I hope not." He became conscious of a sudden sense of relief after
all that the night had offered and his old joyous laughter shone in his
eyes. "But there may be wisdom in sticking close for a few days.
Until they decide we've gone clear."
It was the time, inevitable though it may be long delayed, of relaxing
nerves and muscles. Betty sat down limply, her hands loose in her tap,
her eyes drawn to their fire, looking tired and wistful.
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