ned
their disappointment.

Why, then, should we ascend, if we could not also descend on the
opposite side?

True, upon the summit we should be perfectly safe from an attack of the
guerrilla, but not from _thirst_, and this was the enemy we now dreaded.
Water would not be found on the top of the mesa. It could not better
our situation to go there; on the contrary, we should be in a worse
"fix" than ever.

So said Garey. Where we were, we had our horses--a spare one to eat
when that became necessary, and the others to aid us in our attempt to
escape. Should we climb the cliff, these must be left behind. From the
top was less than fifty yards, and our rifles would still cover them
from the clutch of our enemies, but to what advantage? Like ourselves,
they must in time fall before thirst and hunger.

The gleam of hope died within us, as suddenly as it had sprung up.

It could in no wise serve us to scale the cliff: we were better in our
present position; we could hold that so long as thirst would allow us.
We could not do more within the granite walls of an impregnable
fortress.

This was the conclusion at which Garey and I had simultaneously arrived.

Rube had not yet expressed himself. The old man was standing with both
hands clutching his long rifle, the butt of which rested upon the
ground. He held the piece near the muzzle, partially leaning upon it,
while he appeared gazing intently into the barrel. This was one of his
"ways" when endeavouring to unravel a knotty question; and Garey and I
knowing this peculiarity on the part of the old trapper, remained
silent--leaving him to the free development of his "instincts."

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

RUBE'S PLAN.

For several minutes, Rube preserved his meditative attitude, without
uttering a word or making the slightest motion. At length, a low but
cheerful whistle escaped his lips, and at the same time his body became
erect.

"Eh? what is't, old boy?" inquired Garey, who understood the signal, and
knew that the whistle denoted some discovery.

Rube's reply was the interrogatory, "How long's yur trail-rope, Bill?"

"It are twenty yards--good mizyure," answered Garey.

"An yurs, young fellur?"

"About the same length--perhaps a yard or two more."

"Good!" ejaculated the questioner, with a satisfied look. "We'll fool
them niggurs yit--_we_ will!"

"Hooraw for you, old boy! you've hit on some plan, hain't you?" This
was Garey's interrogatory.