In spite of what he had said, though, Arthur fell into a deep, brooding silence that made Chuck want to punch Gardel’s gloating face. They continued around the slate arc, and Chuck began to wonder if Masterson hadn’t simply leaped into the air and disappeared that way.
And then Arthur yelled, “Hey!”
“What is it?”
“A cigar,” he said. He got down on his hands and knees and shoved some ferns aside. Gingerly, he picked up a smoldering brown cigar stub. “It’s still warm, Chuck. He couldn’t have dropped it long ago.”
“Maybe he dropped it on purpose. He may be trying to throw us off.”
“Maybe,” Arthur said. He shoved some more ferns aside, practically putting his nose to the ground. “No! No, Chuck, here’s a footprint! They went this way.”
Chuck didn’t wait for more. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Pete! Dr. Perry! We’ve picked up the trail again!”
From far off at the other end of the semicircle, he heard Pete shout, “Leave a marker, Chuck! Get going!”
The voice echoed over the land, coming up out of the dispersing mist like the voice of a ghost. Chuck quickly removed his shirt and dropped it to the slate.
“I’m leaving my shirt,” he yelled. “My shirt, Pete!”
“Right-o,” the shout came back. “We’ll find it. Get going.”
“Let’s go,” Chuck said to Arthur.
They moved off the slate into the thick growth. Chuck stumbled forward eagerly, anxious to catch up with Masterson and his prisoners. He ignored the plants that tore at his exposed chest. His excitement mounted as the footprints grew clearer. The growth was thinning now, the land becoming strewn with loose rocks. The mist still clung to their waists, but it had cleared considerably, and he could see a sheer, high cliff in the distance, sitting across their line of approach like a gigantic flat tombstone. As they got closer to the cliff, Chuck saw that it was broken by a ledge some fifty feet from the ground, giving the appearance of a crude step cut into its face. The bottom of the cliff was strewn with huge boulders that formed a labyrinthine wall where the cliff met the land.
“What do you think?” Arthur asked.
“I don’t know,” Chuck said. “He may have skirted the boulders and the cliff.”
“Maybe. The ground looks pretty rugged, though.”
“Yeah. What do you think?”
“I think he’s holed up among those boulders at the bottom of the cliff.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Be a heck of a job to get him out if he is. Especially with him holding Denise and Dr. Dumar.”
Chuck glanced over his shoulder, hoping that Pete and Dr. Perry had spotted his shirt. “We’ll have help soon,” he said. “That should make the job easier.”
“Ever try to get a gopher out of its hole?” Arthur asked.
“No.”
“It’s a tough job. An almost impossible job.”
“Well,” Chuck said, “Masterson isn’t a gopher.” Arthur chuckled softly. “More a rat, I would say.” Chuck smiled with him, then laid a hand on his powerful arm. “Let’s get a little closer. Keep low.”
They dropped down low to their knees, walking in a half-crouch. They hadn’t traveled three feet when a booming voice shouted, “Don’t move another inch or I’ll shoot the girl!”
As if backing up the voice, a rifle sounded from behind the boulders. The bullet whistled through the air, kicking up a spurt of rock and dust some six inches from Chuck’s nose. He swallowed hard and began rolling toward a low flat rock to his left. The rifle boomed again, and Chuck heard the same whistle, was relieved when he saw the bullet plow up dirt far short of its mark. A high shrill laugh came from behind the boulders, and Chuck shuddered when he heard it. Arthur was beside him now, flat on his belly behind the rock. Gardel was there, too, smiling in superiority.
“Kind of got you, ain’t he, Superboy?”
“Shut up, Gardel.”
Gardel laughed. “Give it to ‘em, Dirk,” he shouted.
Masterson’s voice came back over the space between them and the boulders. “That you, Brock?”
“Give them another round,” Gardel called.
“Come on over,” Masterson shouted.
The .45 was in Chuck’s hand almost before Gardel moved an inch.
“If you want a hole in your head, go on,” Chuck said. “Otherwise, get down on your belly and stretch out your hands in front of you.” He wiggled the .45 at Gardel, and the thin man eyed it with curious respect. This was a language he understood. Guns. And violence. These were the elements that had gone into the shaping of his character.
“He’s got me,” Gardel called. “The kid is armed.”
When Masterson’s voice came back, it was cold and deadly. “Chuck! Chuck Spencer! Can you hear me?”
“I hear you, Masterson.”
“Get this right the first time, because I’m not going to repeat it. Who’s with you?”
“None of your business!”
“Who’s with you?” Masterson shouted again.
Chuck was about to answer when he heard Pete’s voice behind him. “Chuck, where are you?”
“Get down, Pete!” he shouted. “Masterson’s holed up here and he’s using the rifle.”
“Right,” Pete’s voice came.